


Silent in my Sanity

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Ghost Ship (2002), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt Stiles, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Malia is not a Hale, Mates, Multiple Character Death(s), Panic Attacks, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stilinski Family Feels, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-13 23:10:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20182279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: “How much do you know about the Ferriman?” The question catches him off guard and he has to take a minute to sort through his mental rolodex of all the supernatural species he’s studied so far. He remembers Deaton saying something about a mystical race of creatures born of sin and sent out to collect souls that have been corrupted. There’s only been one sighting in the past hundred years.“They’re rare,” Stiles says eventually. “Like, so rare that my teacher thinks they’re just old fairy tales.” Which is saying something since Deaton’s got an entire file cabinet full of information on varying species that Stiles had thought were myths for most of his life. Turns out that the Loch Ness Monster is real, and she gives out sage life advice when she’s in a good mood.“They’re real, Stiles. One’s on this ship right now.” She lets out a long breath, gazing anxiously around the room before continuing. “Ferriman is a title that’s passed down every three hundred years, starting with Charon. The one that’s on this ship is fairly new, he still needs to impress his bosses.”“Satan? He needs to impress Satan?”“Uh-huh.”“God, my life is so fucked up.”





	1. Dabbled in Blood

_ _

_And one by one dropped the revellers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all._

**—The Masque of the Red Death**

_May 19, 1962_

Malia can hear the party going in full swing even through the dense metal of the ship, her sharp hearing making out the faint pops of champagne corks and the tapping of high heels. She isn’t quite sure why the adults are celebrating, but she’s in her best dress and slim fingers are wrapped around the little gold heart she wears around her throat. _‘If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time’_ is etched delicately into the locket, Malia’s favorite quote from her very favorite book.

She would gladly stay in her cabin and read all night if she could, but the Captain asked her to join him on deck himself and she’d said yes before thinking what it would mean.

Malia doesn’t like being surrounded by a bunch of strangers, but it’s the only way she gets to see her family again after a year in Italy with a cousin. So, she lifts her chin the way her big sister showed her before she left and marches up the stairs like the steadfast tin soldier heading into battle against the evil Jack-in-the-box.

The adults are drinking and dancing when she reaches the deck, dressed in their best clothes with their hair all done up and their jewelry glittering under the light of the pretty lanterns crisscrossing overhead.

Most of the people ignore her, she’s just a silly little girl with nothing to say that will keep them entertained. It doesn’t upset her as much as it used to, she likes being ignored after a year of being constantly scrutinized by a nanny that hated everything about Malia from the way she wore her hair to the way she slouched at the dinner table. It was a mutual disdain and Malia had done everything in her power to see the little vein in Nanny’s forehead bulge out.

She finds herself a bench slightly apart from the revelry, bringing out the little game she’d snatched from her cousin’s room before she was expected at the docks. It’s a word game, you twist the little white boxes to create new words or even sentences and Malia has become proficient at it in the past week that she’s had it. She’s still trying to figure out which word to make next when a new set of hands are reaching around her to spell out _bored_.

“Seems to apply to anyone with a brain,” the First Mate explains when she peers up at him. Chris Argent is a kind man, always happy to take time from his schedule to ensure that Malia has something to entertain herself. He has a daughter her age back in California, safe with his wife and far from the aunt that would taint Allison’s innocence. The aunt is currently on stage, crooning _Senza Fine_ into the microphone as couples dance.

“You don’t like parties, Mister Argent,” she asks, gazing up at him with big brown eyes. He’s handsome too, her older sister would probably flirt with him until a blush colored his cheeks.

“Not particularly, no.” He remains standing, gazing around until his pale eyes land on one of the men handing out champagne flutes, face going hard. “Excuse me, Miss Tate, there’s something I need to take care of.” He’s striding off before she can even open her mouth, taking a man in a dark gray jacket off to the side to have words with him. _Kitchen staff_, she remembers. All of the kitchen staff are dressed in the gray jackets to help guests distinguish the difference between deck crew and the others.

Malia’s gaze strays to the blonde on stage, the red dress so tight on Kate’s body that it looks like a second skin, barely covering her breasts as she moves her hips sensuously from side to side_. “Senza fine, sei un attimo senza fine. Non hai ieri non hai domani. Tutto è ormai nelle tue mani, mani grandi mani senza fine,”_ she sings, her voice soft yet carrying plainly over the sounds of revelry.

A new, white-gloved hand appears in front of her face now and Malia turns her attention to its owner, a brown-haired man in his late forties, dressed in a Captain’s uniform with its stark white fabric and gold brocade along the broad shoulders of it. Deucalion is handsome as well, she supposes. He’s at that age where the wrinkles added definition to his features rather than overtaking them, startling blue eyes and a sharp smile that makes her grin in response.

“May I have the pleasure of this dance,” he asks, the only Englishman onboard. Most passengers were Italian, heading to the States to see if it could compare to the great Coliseum or _Terme di Saturnia_.

“You may,” Malia accepts, settling her hand in his much larger one. Deucalion leads the way onto the little upraised dance floor and Malia giggles as he spins her around, making a game out of it and ignoring the scathing looks they receive from the pairs surrounding them. Deucalion—or Deuc as he’s been insisting upon since Malia boarded—doesn’t much care what his passengers think of him, he gets a nice payment to deliver them from place to place and his attitude doesn’t affect the amount.

Dancing takes her mind off the ache in her chest from missing her family and she’s able to fully relax as she sways to and fro like she used to with her father. Deucalion was twirling her out again when a strange metallic _twang _cut through the den of noise, like wire being pulled taunt. Malia’s pulled forward sharply, face buried in Deucalion’s belly and a faint spray of something warm misting against her bare arms and cheek.

Around her, people are collapsing to the ground, pools of red expanding closer and closer to her pretty white shoes. It takes a full minute for her to process exactly what had happened, Deucalion collapsing to the floor with the top half of his head landing three feet away, blue eyes glassy and unseeing. Across the ship, the wire that’s been supporting the lanterns has reeled itself up, cutting through the guests at an amazing speed.

To Malia’s left is a woman with blood coloring her lips and her satin gloves ruined by viscera as she tries to grasp at the intestines spilling out of her belly; behind her is a severed arm with a cigarette still clutched between two fingers, the white filter unstained and the tip glowing a faint orange; near the railing, the man in the gray jacket has Chris’s head forced back, running the ragged edge of a broken champagne flute across the vulnerable skin of his throat.

Terror builds and build inside Malia, like a stone lodged in her throat that won’t let her breathe, won’t let her speak.

When the man’s eyes land on her, she turns on a clumsy heel and takes off at a breakneck pace for the stairs. She can hear the thundering footsteps behind her, gunshots echoing on the third level where the pool is, screaming and begging and sobbing. She smacks her palms flat over her ears, sure that she’ll be safe if she can just make it to her cabin and lock herself inside.

Malia slips halfway down one of the narrow halls, shoulder slamming against a wood-paneled wall and gaze drifting down to the half-dried blood. It’s tacky, a distant part of her mind observes, making sickening _thwip_ sounds whenever she walks from where it sticks to the bottoms of her shoes.

Behind her, a man in a dove gray jacket comes out of the bathroom, a straight razor in his clenched fist. There are several such men roaming the ship, kitchen workers turned mutineers. She tries to draw in a sharp breath, but that stone in her throat keeps it from happening, transforming it into a stuttering wheeze. The man bares his teeth in a grin and starts towards her at a steady walk even as she begins to sprint again.

Her fingers just manage to brush the handle of her door when someone grabs the back of her dress, slamming Malia hard against the solid wood and making her lip split open. The copper taste on her tongue makes her belly curdle, supper threatening to come back up and splatter over the man’s shoes as she’s jerked around to face him. The man brings a straight razor up to her eyeline, either not noticing the warm liquid dripping onto his knuckles or not caring. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, expecting a sharp, stinging pain at any second.

When it doesn’t come, she chances a glance around and spots a second man standing next to her captor. He’s young, she realizes, maybe in his mid-twenties with styled brown hair and a cutting grin. He’s grinning at her now, nimble fingers turning slack rope into a noose without him even having to look at it. He hands it off to the man with a straight razor, winking at Malia before sauntering away. She wants to yell at him, beg him to just let her live and she’ll never tell anyone about what she’s seen tonight. She’d go home and never say another word if that’s what it takes. But the man doesn’t care, he just yanks her into her cabin and begins to work the noose around her throat.

That’s when the stone seems to dissolve, as the rope begins to tighten and Malia has just enough air in her lungs to _scream_.


	2. Negotiation

_September 17, 2016_

The shrill ringing of a telephone is what brings Stiles out of a restless sleep, blindly reaching around his crowded desk until his hand hits the phone and he brings the receiver to his ear. Normally he’d put on a nice tone like he was happy to speak to a potential client, but that tone is currently buried under forty-eight hours of exhaustion crammed into a half hour nap.

“What,” he snaps down the line, eyes still closed.

“Is this Stilinski Salvage,” a voice asks on the other end, tinny with static and distance.

“Depends on who’s calling.” After being out at sea for six months, it’s a safe bet that they’re behind on a couple of bills. Okay, so they might be behind on two bills and the rent, but Stiles and Jackson are working to sort it all out.

“I’m Theo Raeken, I work out of Mackenzie Bay. I found this ship that seems to be crewless, just floating through the Strait and I was wondering if your crew might want to check it out.” That has Stiles opening his eyes and sitting up in the office chair, absentmindedly using his shirt sleeve to wipe the drool off his chin.

“How can you be sure that it doesn’t have a crew?”

“Because I do the Artic Weather Patrol flights and the past three times I’ve gone out, I’ve seen this huge ass ship that’s just floating in no particular direction. It’s just drifting with the current.”

“Have you at least tried to make contact with the ship?”

“Yeah, every time that I’ve seen it. All I get is static, so they’re either ignoring me or nonexistent.” Stiles scratches at the three-day-old stubble, grabbing a pencil from his pocket and a stained Chinese menu out of the wastebasket. He scribbles down the guy’s name and the few details he’s gotten so far, trying his best to stay awake for just a little while longer.

“You try telling the Coast Guard? They usually get hard-ons for shit like this.”

“It’s in international waters, so all they did was make a note of it.” Stiles hums, stomach growling as he eyes the sweet and sour chicken option in red lettering. _Ooh, and it comes with rice and an egg roll_. “I got some pictures.”

“Alright, fax ‘em over and I’ll let my dad take a look at them.” He rattles off the number for the fax machine that’s barely hanging on and gets Raeken’s number so Stiles can let the guy know which way the crew has decided. “We’re having a family dinner tonight, so I should be able to give you an answer by morning. Sound good?”

“Sounds excellent. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” And Stiles ends the call, resting his head back down on his arms. He’s halfway back to dreamland when his stomach gives a loud rumble and he decides that sweet and sour chicken deal is too good to pass up.

It’s late that night and halfway through a second course of empanadas when Stiles remembers the phone call from that morning. He sets his beer aside, dark eyes roaming over his family as they laugh and talk along the picnic table; Jackson has his head resting on Danny’s shoulder, blue eyes half-closed as he enjoys the warmth of his fiancé. Stiles used to be jealous of them, that Danny and Jackson had found each other and fallen in love so easily while Stiles couldn’t find a relationship even if it bit him on the ass.

Then it had. Bit him on the ass, that is.

His gaze finds Derek now, standing near the grill with Cora and Lydia’s son, Mason chattering away about how bow ties are cooler than normal ties and that’s why he’s wearing one on the first day of pre-school. Derek just nods along sagely, used to the kid’s random babbling about everything from the history of Power Rangers to his newest best friend, a little boy named Liam that Mason is sure he’ll marry one day (_“Sorry, Der, but his eyes is prettier. I’ll still let you push me on the swings, though.”_)

“You okay over there, Stiles?” He glances over at his dad, smiling to reassure him.

“I’m good, just thinking,” he says, setting his bottle down on the checkered table cloth. It’s as old and battered as the table, but Claudia had picked it out the summer before she got sick and neither of the Stilinski men could bring themselves to throw it out. Stiles fidgets with a loose thread for a moment before once again remembering what had led to him arguing with Kira over whether or not he could eat three helpings of Sweet and Sour Chicken and still have room for supper (he’d won, dammit). “Hey, we got a call at the office today.”

“Oh yeah? Anything interesting?”

“Possible abandoned ship somewhere in the Bering Strait. Guy works out of Mackenzie Bay and has tried off and on to make contact with the crew. No response.”

“Doesn’t surprise me.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in the Strait. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle’s half-sister or something.”

“Not comforting.” John chuckles at that, leaning back in his seat with his blue eyes sparkling.

“Relax, son, it’s all just superstition.”

“Yeah, right up until we disappear in a mysterious fog or get eaten by giant crocodiles.” John snorts and shakes his head, choosing not to touch on Stiles’ childhood fear brought on by a Lake Placid marathon when he’d been too young to watch, and his babysitter had been too stoned out of her mind to give a shit. “He faxed us some pictures. I forgot them at the office, though.”

“I’ll check them out when I go by later.” Stiles nods and goes back to picking at the label stuck to his beer bottle, thoughts turning towards all the stories his dad has told him about the Strait. Calling it the Bermuda Triangle’s half-sister isn’t an exaggeration, some weird shit has gone down there and not all of it can be explained away. “Stiles, get out of your head. Don’t overthink this when we don’t even know if we’ll take the job.”

“Would you relax, Stilinski,” Jackson asks, scowling from his spot curled up next to Danny. “You guys haven’t been home a week and you’re already heading into panicked research mode.”

“I am not,” Stiles lies.

“Yeah, sure, and Mason can’t kick your ass at chess.”

“That was one time!”

“One and a half,” Mason supplies as he wanders over to his moms. “I was beating you that one time and you quit halfway through because you’re a sore loser.”

“You should see him when he loses in Monopoly,” Kira snickers. “He was picking money up for weeks afterwards.” Now it’s Stiles’ turn to scowl as he slouches lower in his chair, not liking being ganged-up on by the people who are supposed to love him unconditionally, tendency to flip game boards off tables or not.

“Traitors,” Stiles declares,” traitors, all of you.” Mason comes over and curls up in Stiles’ lap, beaming up at him and showing off the empty space where one of his lower teeth has fallen out.

“You’re still my favorite person to play chess with, Uncle Stiles,” he promises, and Stiles can feel himself wrapping further around the little boy’s pinky.

“I thought I was,” Lydia says, looking genuinely hurt.

“I can’t beat you yet.”

As promised, Stiles calls Raeken back the next morning—bright, but certainly not early—and asks if he can stop by to talk things through and sign a contract. Raeken agrees easily enough and they set up a reasonable time that’ll ensure all crew members are present. That leaves Stiles two hours before he has to start fresh coffee and thirty minutes before the ray of sunshine known as Kira bursts into the office. Don’t get him wrong, he loves her to death and he’d do anything for her, but she’s just so bubbly. It hurts his cynical little heart.

He rakes his fingers through his hair, forcing down a late breakfast of scrambled eggs and salsa. Across the office, his dad is glaring down at the grainy pictures that had been faxed over and completely ignoring the strawberry parfait that Melissa had sent with him that morning.

“Anything interesting,” Stiles asks, talking around a mouthful of food.

“It’s big,” John shrugs, noncommittal yet interested. “Possibly military, but that’s not likely if the Coast Guard didn’t jump on it.” He makes a low noise, rubbing at his jaw and squinting. Stiles knows the expression well, it means his dad is itching to get out of the office and think where there’s sunshine.

“I can hold down the fort if you wanna get some fresh air and a breakfast that isn’t pink.” John glances up with a wry smile and Stiles grins in response. “I won’t tell if you decide to eat McDonald’s today.”

“What do you want in return?”

“I owe Jackson twenty bucks and I’m a little short. Turns out lawyers take that kind of shit personal.”

“Being a lawyer has nothing to do with it. That money hungry part of his personality comes straight from his damn father.”

“Yeah, Peter must be so proud.” John fishes a twenty out of his pocket and hands it over to Stiles before grabbing the pictures and walking out, the door shutting behind him with a _bang_ that makes the picture frame beside it shake. Stiles smiles a little, tossing his dad’s breakfast in the trash and then settling back behind his own desk.

The next thirty minutes pass in relative quiet as Stiles reads over the contract Jackson had written up earlier. It’s unneeded considering the fact that Jackson is great at his job and Peter, who’d proofread it earlier, is even better. The father-son duo certainly have their jobs down to a science.

Like clockwork, Kira comes in with a box of doughnuts and an iced latte for herself, flopping down behind her desk and setting to work. Kira Yukimura is basically sunshine coalesced in a person-shaped package, all bright smiles and soft edges that make even the ever-stoic Hale family melt under her warmth. She’s also the head of advertising, which basically means updating social media accounts with neat pictures to get people to notice them.

Twenty minutes after that, the others begin to filter inside with various breakfast foods until the only person missing is their guest. Coffee draws the crew into the breakroom like a herd of zombies, each of them taking down one of the two dozen mismatched cups and filling it to the brim.

Then, right on time, there’s a knock on the front door of the little shop and a silhouette thrown against the frosted glass window that has _Stilinski Salvage_ in curling gold script courtesy of Cora Hale. John is the one to answer the door, ushering Raeken inside with the friendly smile that got him elected Sheriff three years in a row until a heart attack put him out of business. Raeken turns out to be a handsome man around Stiles’ age, tousled brown hair and glittering eyes that study the crew like they’re butterflies in cases. It’s unnerving, but Stiles brushes it off as his paranoid nature rearing its head.

“You must be Mister Raeken,” John says, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m John Stilinski and this is my crew.” He gestures to the others all gathered in the main office, a cramped space at the best of times and too full now. A vast majority of their crew are beefy at most and Abercrombie-model-fit at least (aside from Stiles, possessing a runner’s body more than anything).

“Please, just call me Theo.” His smile is charming, all straight, white teeth that belong in a Crest commercial. “Did you get a chance to look over the pictures I faxed?”

“I did. Why don’t we go discuss them in my office?” John leads the way, making a point to leave the door open so the others can eavesdrop from their desks instead of crowding around the door as they’re wont to do. “Did you happen to get a name off the ship?”

“No, I wasn’t able to get that close to it.” There’s the sound of creaking wood when the men settle down into their seats and Stiles doesn’t even need to close his eyes to picture his dad clasping his hands over his belly as he settles in comfortably, Sheriff Mode activated and interrogation beginning. Stiles has been on the other side of that posture most of his life, not even Jackson can stand up to it.

There’s a quiet murmur of voices as they discuss different things, more shop talk than anything as they try to work out how large the ship might be and why the military wouldn’t want to stake a claim in it. Eventually his dad comes to the door and gestures for Stiles and Peter to come in.

“This is Peter Hale, our lawyer.” Peter feigns a polite smile and shakes Raeken’s hand, firm and businesslike. “He helped to write the contract and all we need to do is negotiate a price for the final draft.”

“Nice to meet you,” Raeken says with another smile.

“And this is my son, Stiles. He’s the one you’ve been speaking to and my second-in-command.” Stiles shakes his hand next, pleased that there are no sweaty palms. “Now, back to business.” Raeken takes the seat across from John again while Stiles and Peter remain standing, the contract laid out on the desk for Raeken to look over.

“I can agree to all of this. It’s reasonable.”

“Something that’s never usually said where the Hale men are concerned,” Stiles quips, sending Peter a smirk. The older man pretends to ignore him, going over some of the fine print so they don’t have to deal with Raeken getting his panties in a bunch in case he missed something. When that’s done, everyone turns their attention back to John.

“You said something about negotiating the price, Mister Stilinski.”

“Yes,” John nods, all business. “What percentage were you hoping to get out of this?”

“Twenty percent of everything.” Stiles can’t bite back his snort, looking at Raeken like he’s grown a second head. “What? Why is that amusing?”

“Have you ever done something like this before,” Stiles asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the wall. It’s powder blue, a soothing color according to Lydia. Their accountant doubles as their interior designer, she also makes the best apple cobbler in Hudson’s Hope. “Ever gone onto a ship that would love nothing more than to drag you under and watch you drown?”

“No, but—”

“Ever shelled out the cash when equipment snaps under the pressure or medical bills after a crew member breaks their ankle because part of the deck gave way underneath them? I tell you what, Raeken, when you experience all of that I’ll let you have twenty percent.” His lips thin and Stiles thinks the other man might take a swing at him, but he sucks in a deep breath and regains control over his temper.

“Then what would you suggest my cut be?” His eyes are off, too intense for a simple negotiation and…. And they look almost like they’re glowing. Stiles blinks and they’re back to a dark green, no sign of the faint ring of gold that had appeared around his pupils like copper deposits. _Not a ‘wolf, the others would have smelled it_.

“Ten percent.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’m the one that found the ship.”

“That’s just good business,” Peter shrugs, an imposing figure in his tailored suit. “You can go find another crew in Chetwynd, but they probably won’t even let you have the ten percent. Actually, you’ll be lucky if one of those crew give you anything at all.” It’s not a total lie, there are some deadbeat crews known to get information about ships and haul them in without sharing the cash.

“Fine, but I’m coming too.”

“Absolutely not. You’re a liability at best and a hazard at worst.”

“Bring me with you or I take my chances back in Chetwynd.” The other three share a long look, the rest of the crew gathering in the doorway as a silent conversation passes between them. None of them are happy about the idea of Raeken screwing up their routine, but this ship might be worth a fortune. It’s John that gives Raeken their answer.

“You keep your mouth shut and you keep out of my crew’s way or your ten percent gets split between them.”


	3. Fifty Years of Rust

The third day out at sea is always the worst, the homesickness hits the entire crew and their Skype cuts out more often so they can’t even really talk to their family like they want to. The other five members on the tugboat have jobs to keep their minds busy, but all Stiles has is his stash of comics and juice boxes.

That’s why, when the sky is dark and Jordan is at the wheel, Stiles breaks out the weed. John doesn’t much approve of it, but this strain doesn’t affect humans so at least two of them will always have a clear head. The joint is passed around slowly, the cabin filled with glowing eyes of all shades; yellow, red, green.

Even halfway to a good buzz, Stiles notices the way Raeken’s eyes seem to be lit from behind. It’s not a glow precisely, but it isn’t something that’s normal to humans. No one else seems to catch on to it though, laughing and talking like something isn’t quite right.

“Dude,” Scott asks,” are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Raeken glances their way, eyes slightly narrowed. _Wrong_. The word lights up like neon in Stiles’ mind, but he can’t figure out why. “Has anyone checked in with Jordan?”

“I was just upstairs. He’s got his music cranked up to keep himself awake for the next three hours of his shift.” Stiles nods and leans against his bro, feeling himself starting to unwind.

Smoke hangs in the air like early morning fog, thicker near the ceiling and lacking in scent for the ‘wolves’ sensitive noses. This strain had been grown in Deaton’s private storage unit near the vet clinic where Scott moonlights, named Fruity Pebbles because it’s almost always what Jordan craves after a few rounds of puff-puff-pass.

Stiles’ eyes glow faintly, the green of a firefly’s light, and then the smoke overhead twists into a new shape, a little tugboat. He can make every detail precise if he really wants to, add the chipping paint and the initials carved into the hull, but this suits him just as well. Even just the vague shape is enough to identify it as the _Beacon_.

The walkie crackles to life in a burst of static and then Jordan’s voice is filtering through, the scream of his music following. _“Jordan to Sheriff, come in.”_ John rolls his eyes at the title he can’t seem to lose but sits up enough to grab the walkie off his desk.

“You do realize I haven’t been the Sheriff for six years, right,” he asks.

_“And yet you’re still more suited to the job than Haigh.”_ John snorts out a laugh and shakes his head, rolling his eyes skyward. _“Now how about you get your ass up here and check out what I just saw on the radar?”_

“You got it, Parrish.” The static and music die away as John sets the walkie back down, dropping onto his bunk to pull on his shoes. Stiles watches from his spot curled against Scott’s side as his father rises again, eyes tracking his movements until he’s out of the cabin and heading up the stairs.

“What do you think Jordan saw,” he asks when the conversation lulls.

“Probably nothing,” Derek murmurs. He’s curled up in the corner with his DS held up in front of his face. “It’s the tail end of his shift and he’s getting antsy. You know how he is.”

“Nah, he doesn’t pull that shit when it’s raining like this.” The torrential downpour had started at the end of Scott’s shift and hasn’t let up any since Jordan took over the wheel. Stiles is tempted to head up top, but then the spliff is passed over to him and he lets that thought go with ease. He blows out a smoke ring, eyes glowing again as the ring twists in on itself, writhing until a small dragon soars out of the wreckage of it, scales glinting.

“That’s so cool,” Raeken says, smiling. “Are you a Druid? My aunt Jennifer is.”

“Nah, he’s a Spark,” Scott says, slinging a proud arm around Stiles’ shoulders. “It manifested when we were Freshmen in high school.” Stiles rolls his eyes but sends Scott a fond smile. Scott brags about Stiles being a Spark and Stiles brags about Scotty being their Alpha’s second, it’s what bros are for.

“Does having magic help a lot with your job?” Stiles’ brows twitch as he notes that strange light again, like there’s sunlight behind Raeken’s eyes. It’s not normal for humans, but not quite right for any supernaturals that Stiles has come across either. He doesn’t smell human either, like morning dew and something other.

“Only when it comes to healing scrapes and bruises. My Spark is more attuned with nature, so I spend a lot of time in the woods when I’m home.” There’s another burst of static from the walkie and this time it’s John’s voice coming through.

_“Derek, think you can get up to the bow light without falling off?”_ Danny tosses the walkie to Derek, accepting the ‘wolf’s nod of thanks with one of his own.

“You got it, Sheriff,” Derek says. He tosses the walkie over to Raeken before standing up, pulling on a raincoat and grabbing a flashlight. “Looks like Jordan isn’t paranoid after all.”

“You are the only one surprised by that, man,” Danny says. He’s reclined on his bunk, flipping through one of the Red Hood comics he’d borrowed from Stiles. He’s got plenty of his own books to read, but sometimes you just want to relax and enjoy mind-numbingly weird plotlines. Also, Jason Todd gets his ass handed to him by Artemis and Stiles lives for that shit.

“Want me to tag along,” Stiles asks, glancing up at his boyfriend.

“Nah,” Derek shakes his head. “You’re clumsy enough when you aren’t stoned.” Stiles would argue about that, but he’s too high to be offended. There’s always later. Derek disappears out of the cabin and Stiles can hear his boots hitting the metal steps, probably slicker than hell with all this rain.

“I’m gonna go see what Dad and Jordan are so preoccupied with.” He wriggles his way out from under Scott’s arm, throwing on a jacket before heading outside. The rain is a shock to his system after the near suffocating heat of the cabin, tiny pinpricks of ice against his exposed cheeks until he stumbles into the bridge. “What’s up, Pops?”

“Might have found something,” John says, grabbing the mic. It’s an old fashioned thing that came with the tug, but Stiles and John have a soft spot for busted things. “Vessel at position seven-five north,” he says into the mic,” this is _Beacon_. Come in.” They wait a moment but get no response from the ship that’s supposedly waiting beyond the rain.

“Maybe their walkie is on a different frequency.”

“No, this is the frequency that’s most often used out here.” John tries hailing the ship again, getting no response. Stiles looks over his dad’s shoulder at the radar, the bright green screen showing nothing.

“You losing your eyesight in your old age? There’s nothing out there.”

“The radar’s messed up.” He racks the mic, rubbing a hand over his cheek. There’s no stubble there, not even a five o’clock shadow. That’s another thing the Stilinski men have in common, the obsessive need to keep their faces free of unneeded hair. Beards are a pain in the ass to maintain.

The bow light flickers on overhead, sweeping over the water like something from a cheesy movie about aliens. _Beam me up, Scotty_, Stiles thinks with a laugh. The light can barely cut through the rain, reflecting off of waves and…. _Oh fuck_.

Less than ten feet ahead of them is a massive wall of metal, appearing out of fucking nowhere. Jordan curses and throws the tug into reverse, frantically turning the wheel until the crunch of metal sends them all shooting forward against the control panel. Stiles lets out a pitiful whine, head bleeding from where it had cracked against the windscreen.

“I should’ve stayed in the cabin,” he groans, sliding to the floor. “Where the fuck did that thing come from?”

“Hell, probably,” Jordan grumbles. “I told you that radar was busted, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, levering himself upright using the chair. “Are you boys okay?”

“Been worse.” Stiles nods when his dad glances over at him, the wound on his head already knitting closed. He turns to stare out the window, taking in the rusted bow of a ship that rises high into the air. With the rain and a fog rolling in, the ship almost seems to disappear into the clouds. “Is that an ocean liner?”

“Pull us back, Parrish. I wanna see if this thing has a name.” Jordan nods, easing the _Beacon_ back a few feet. The ship doesn’t disappear in the fog, doesn’t wink out of sight like Stiles expects it to. It remains where it is, just as real as anything. The bow light swings down in a graceful arch, revealing wide black letters painted along the side of the ship.

“_Demone Lupo_.” John lets out a slow breath and Stiles picks up on the excitement growing in his father, a heady rush of fresh oranges and sunlight. The words obviously mean something to him, something huge.

“Stiles, hand me the mic.” He holds out a hand blindly, wrapping his fingers around the walkie when Stiles hands it off to him. “This is civilian tugboat _Beacon_, is anyone aboard? This is _Beacon_, can you read us?” There’s not even static this time, just a silence that’s disrupted by feet rushing up the stairs.

“What’s goin’ on,” Scott demands, eyes glowing a bright gold in the dim lighting. “What happened?”

“We found the ship,” Stiles says dryly. “It’s a big one.” Scott peers out the window at the ship, mouth slowly dropping open like he’s some character in a Disney show. All but Derek crowd into the bridge, grouping around John when he swings a door open. Rain splatters against the rubber matt of the floor, beads of it forming on the metal doorway. “Do you know it, Dad?”

“Only in my dreams,” John says. He’s looking up at the ship with wide-eyed wonder, like a kid at Christmas or Dudley Dursley on a particularly good birthday. “She’s beautiful.” Which really goes to prove that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The railing on the lower deck is hanging in ribbons or just plain gone, the windows are crusted over with grime and barnacles, and there’s a layer of rust so thick that even looking at it makes Stiles want a Tetanus shot. He can’t even _get_ Tetanus.

“It’s Italian, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. These things couldn’t compete for speed, so the Italians made these floating art palaces instead. The _Demone Lupo_ was reported missing on May twenty-first, 1962, off the coast of Labrador. There had been no distress signal, no contact, she and her six hundred passengers were just gone.”

“This is the one Mom was obsessed with.” John nods, eyes still trained on the _Lupo_ like it holds all of life’s secrets. “She used to tell me the theories people had for why this thing vanished. I mean, it got straight up weird sometimes; everything from being capsized by a freak ice burg to aliens.”

“She belongs to us now and I say we go investigate.”

“Yeah, maybe the aliens left behind the Omega Thirteen device.”

The hydraulic crane is one part of this job that Stiles absolutely _loathes_. He can’t stand the whining squeal of the gears as he and three others are lifted into the air towards the lower deck of the ship. “Stay together when we get onboard,” John is yelling over the rain. “We don’t know what kind of surprises are waiting for us!”

“Please remember to keep all channels open,” Danny says over the walkie. “And, Stiles, try not to break your neck.”

“I knew you loved me, Danny,” Stiles says, laughing when he hears Danny’s exaggerated groan over the speaker. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Jackson.”

“As if I’d trade in a lawyer with a sculpted jawline for your scrawny ass, Stilinski.” Stiles cackles, leaning against Derek to keep himself upright. The floodlight washes over the _Lupo_, highlighting small holes that have been punched into the side and a few stringy pieces of seaweed that flutter in the storm like banners.

The crane stops at the edge of the deck, John the first to climb over and helping Stiles afterwards. Derek and Scott are next, each of them carrying a flashlight that barely manages to cut through the fog in yellow cones of light. The floor under them feels sturdy enough, but fifty years of rust can turn deck plates into quicksand. The deck is littered with detritus, snapped ropes and rigging, lengths of chain thicker than Derek’s bicep.

“Watch your step, kids,” John calls to them. “Let’s make our way into the fore and then head to the bridge.”

“I don’t see any real damage up here,” Scott says, maneuvering around one of the thick posts bolted to the deck.

“It’s the bilge I’m worried about. God only knows how much damage she’s taken.”

“Good thing Derek is the best underwater welder in the business,” Stiles says, nudging Derek with an elbow. Derek snorts, free hand coming out to rest on the small of Stiles’ back.

“Lifeboats are gone,” Derek observes, craning his neck and squinting in the darkness. His eyes glow red and the line between his brows deepens. “Stern to bow, all gone.” They move to a row of lockers, the doors of them hanging on rusted hinges and crusted over with growing things. “No life preservers either.”

“Are you sure there were no survivors, Dad?”

“As sure as we’re walking on the _Lupo_,” John nods. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain.” The door that leads into the ship proper is set just beyond the lockers on the right, the layers of rust making it almost impossible to be opened. Derek and Scott manage it, forcing the metal out of the frame just enough for the others to squeeze through.

It’s blissfully dry inside, a bit of rain cleaning dust from the floor around their boots. Beams of light sweep over the hallway and Stiles thinks of spotlights trailing after beautiful dancers in old movies. Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire entertaining the masses as they dance under grand archways. _She danced just as well as Fred did_, Claudia used to say, _but she did it backwards and in high heels_. 

“Well, it’s no fiddler’s green,” Scott comments. Stiles drops back into real life, the one where the grand archways are damp and strewn with old sails and yellowed tablecloths. “Bet she used to be beautiful, though.”

“She was,” John confirms. “One of the best ships in her time.” They continue down the hall and come out into a dining room, probably one of several. Tables and chairs are still upright, though the chairs are moldering, and the stuffing falls out like miniature avalanches. To the right, near a staircase that sweeps upwards, is a glass tank. It probably used to hold exotic fish for the guests to gush about, but now all it holds is dying coral and algae.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Stiles says, taking on an upbeat tone,” welcome aboard. My name is Stiles, I’ll be your host this evening.”

_“Love, exciting and new,” _Scott sings, obnoxiously off-key._ “Come aboard, we’re expecting you! Love, life’s sweetest reward, let it flow, it floats back to you!”_ Derek joins in, their voices echoing in the space. _“Love Boat soon will be making another run! The Love Boat promises something for everyone….”_ They trail off when John sends them a cutting glare, Derek’s cheeks reddening.

“Show a little respect,” John says, stern. Sheriff Mode activated. Scott and Stiles just grin, and John rolls his eyes with a smile of his own. The rest of the dining room is in the same shape as the front of it, old trash littering the floor and wires hanging from the ceiling. It’s an accident waiting to happen.

“Look at all those champagne bottles,” Derek says. Stiles follows his gaze, spotting a mountain of cracked, empty bottles with gold foil laying nearby. “Looks like we missed one hell of a party.”

“Can’t imagine the hangover,” Scott snorts. The curdled scent of fear has Stiles’ head snapping around to look at his dad, John tensed with his head titled slightly to the side. The scent lingers a moment longer, old milk gone sour, and then dissipates little by little. “What is it?”

“Listen, Scott.” Stiles strains to make out anything that isn’t pattering rain or waves gently rocking the boat, but then he hears it too. _Tick, tick, squeal_.

The group is tense as they make their way through one of the halls, the water-logged wooden panels looking soggy and fit to burst at the slightest amount of pressure. Stiles can feel his fingers twitch, having to stamp down on the impulsive voice in his head to see just how much pressure it would take to put his fist through one of the panels.

Further down the hall the wood turns to rusted metal and they’re led by the faint _tick-tick-squeal_ to a clock attached to the wall. It’s an old-fashioned thing, its pendulum still swaying back and forth at a steady pace, the source of the noise that had caught his dad’s attention. The pendulum comes to a sudden stop as they all stare at it, and the irrational part of his mind is screaming that they need to get out, that clocks stopping without reason is never a good sign.

Scott stretches out a hand, a slight tremor running through it as he leans forward to touch the rusted surface. The loud chiming of the clock breaks the eerie silence and the four men jump back with shouts of fear, expecting some horrible monster to come charging at them.

It takes them a good minute to get that fear back under control, letting out nervous laughs to try and dispel the tense air around them as the clock chimes ten. Stiles manages a smile, but his thoughts are wandering again, straying to his cache of literary quotes; one in particular from the semester his English teacher had been obsessed with Edgar Allen Poe.

“At each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound,” Stiles recites. “And thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation.”

“Really, son,” John asks as he pins Stiles in place with an unimpressed frown. “You gotta wait until we’re walking through an abandoned ship to break out the Poe quotes?”

“When else would I do it?”

“Let’s just go find the bridge and then get back to the others. You all know how protective Danny gets when he doesn’t get updates every ten minutes.” As they head further into the ship, none of them notice the forgotten game on a table beginning to twist and turn. The white and black squares are manipulated by a pair of invisible hands, forming two words.

_Welcome aboard_.

They find a companionway three flights up from the lower deck, the door rusted shut like all the others along the way. John pops it open with some elbow grease, shining his flashlight inside. This part of the ship is starting to flood, the water ankle deep and rising. The hall is cramped with pipes, looking more like a submarine than a cruise liner.

“After you,” John says, stretching out his arm.

“Contrary to popular belief, I _do_ have some self-preservation,” Stiles says smartly. “Besides, age before beauty.” Scott snorts behind them, shouldering his way past and into the water. “Or fleas before beauty, whatever works.”

The water drains off after a couple of turns, but the floor makes unnerving sounds under their feet. The sound makes Stiles’ teeth ache, like nails scraping down a chalkboard. Debris clutters the sides of the hall, moldy confetti, party decorations. _Unmask, unmask_, Stiles thinks, and he has to swallow a hysterical giggle. He sweeps his flashlight around, the light reflecting off dull metal. He’s about to say something when the metal plates let out a horrendous screech, one of them collapsing under Scott’s weight.

Derek’s moving before anyone even realizes what’s happening, diving to the ground and grabbing Scott’s hand before he can plummet the fifty feet to the next level. Stiles kneels beside Derek, grabbing Scott under his arms and heaving. His gaze flicks to the side for just an instant, then moves back because there’s a little girl down there. She’s on the steps, hands clasped in front of her, and a smile curving her lips.

“Pull me up, Stiles! Pull me up!” His attention snaps back to his best friend, the three men working in tandem to yank Scott back to even ground. They fall backwards under his weight, Scott resting half on top of Derek. “Thanks, guys.” Stiles moves back to the hole once he’s sure Scott’s still alive, peering down at the spot the little girl had been standing in. No one’s down there, they never were.

“How about I take the lead next time,” John says. He’s got Scott’s face cupped in his hands when Stiles turns, all parental worry and frustrated anger. It’s the same expression he wore when Stiles and Scott tried to mattress surf off the roof and onto the trampoline.

“Yeah,” Scott nods. “You got it, dude.”

“You can get off me now, McCall,” Derek says, arching his brows. Scott nods hurriedly, scrambling to his feet and helping Derek up. “You smell awful.”

“You try nearly dying and see how well you smell!”

“I’d smell wonderful because I’m not a sissy.” John snorts and rolls his eyes skyward, probably wondering what he’d done in a past life to deserve this. Can’t have been anything too bad because Stiles is a delight.

“Whatever.” John snaps his fingers once and points straight down the hall, the others nodding their understanding. They move in single file, one hand on the shoulder of the man in front of them and the other holding a flashlight. As they skirt around the hole, Stiles swears he can see a flash of gold eyes in the darkness.

The bridge is relatively easy to find after that, pretty much straight ahead and off to the left down a short hall. The windows in the room are caked in grime, but they’d have a fantastic view of the upper deck otherwise. The equipment is out of date, but it had probably been state of the art fifty-four years ago.

Stiles wanders over to the line of windows, setting the flashlight down so he can rub the sleeve of his jacket against the glass. Some of the grime is wiped away, but a vast majority remains caked on.

“Compass is busted,” Scott says, all business now. Stiles forces himself to relax and listen, able to pick out the steady rhythm of Scott’s heartbeat. “Helm’s not responding either.”

“Rudder probably needs to be checked on,” Stiles says.

“Fuel tanks are empty too,” Derek tells them, dropping a hand down on the throttle. It looks like something from the _Titanic_, a lever with a V cut through the middle to show which speed the ship is running on. Where’s Thomas Andrews when you need him? “She must have been run on full throttle until she was bone-dry.”

“Hardly the first ship we’ve found in that condition.”

“Stiles,” John calls. “I’m heading to look for the logbook, but I want all the documentation brought back to the _Beacon_.” He nods over his shoulder at the water-logged papers scattered over the control panels and the floor. “Be careful, son.”

“You got it.” John brings a hand up to squeeze Stiles’ nape before he leaves the bridge, strides confident. Stiles moves past a half-wall made of glass, stepping into the room John had left behind. He pulls on a pair of gloves and starts transferring documents into the Ziplock baggies he always has stuffed in his pockets.

“Yo, Stiles,” Derek says. “Check it out.” He straightens up so he can see what Derek’s holding, squinting to make out a watch in the gloom. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, they find a lot of stupid shit when they tow other boats, but this watch is digital. Last time he checked they didn’t have digital watches back then.

“That just means we aren’t the first crew to find this ship.”

“Doesn’t that freak you out, though? If someone else found the _Lupo_, then why didn’t they tow it?”

“Because they aren’t as plucky and optimistic as we are.” Stiles shoves the last of the documents inside a baggie and calls it good. “Alright, I’m calling it. Scotty, go find Dad and tell him to get his ass back to the _Beacon_. I need my beauty sleep.” Scott salutes before heading out, calling out John’s name.

“You’re already beautiful,” Derek murmurs, sauntering over to rest his hands on Stiles’ hips. Stiles grins, brushing his nose against Derek’s and accepting a kiss.

“Sweet talking isn’t getting you laid when we share a room with five other people.”

“It was worth a shot.”


	4. The Million Dollar Question

Danny and Raeken are waiting for them in the bridge when the others get back, Danny meticulously cleaning the station with a baby wipe. Jordan seems to leave a thin covering of Cheeto dust everywhere he goes, and it drives Danny bananas. Stiles drops documents and maps on the little table before heading farther into the ship, the color drained from his cheeks.

Danny’s gaze follows John as he sits in the captain’s chair, legs sprawled out in front of him. He’s human, he gets tired easily just like Danny does. Sometimes, after long days spent working, it’s strange to remember that he’s not the only human on the crew. “Want some tea,” he asks, already pouring a cup out of the thermos.

“That’d be great, Danny. Thanks.” Danny nods as he hands the mug off to John, finding a seat on the table near the documents. The group had been gone a little over an hour, but they all look like they’ve trekked through a war zone. There are lines of exhaustion carved into Scott’s face that not even accelerated healing can touch.

“What happened out there?”

“Scott tried to dive through the floor,” Derek says, lightly punching Scott’s arm. The Beta scoffs, sinking down into a chair with a worn out sigh. “The floor is basically a giant death trap on the third level, part of it gave out on Scott.”

“That sucks.”

“It wasn’t fun,” Scott says. His eyes are focused on his boots, foot tapping out a nervous rhythm. Danny can’t hear heartbeats, but he imagines Scott’s is going ninety miles a minute right now if the way Derek reacts is any indication. Derek isn’t big on affection, but he reaches out to lay a hand on Scott’s shoulder without hesitating. Against PDA or not, pack is pack.

“Did you guys find out how she got stuck here,” Raeken asks, gaze switching between John and the two ‘wolves. There’s something wrong about him, but Danny can’t put his finger on it. It’s like when he and Jackson took a trip to Paris and Lydia moved all their furniture two inches to the left. They knew something was wrong but couldn’t see the big picture to realize it.

“That’s the million dollar question,” John says. He’s got the mug cradled between his hands and his steady gaze is fixed on Raeken. He knows something is wrong, too. It makes Danny’s neck itch. “You ever heard about the _Mary Celeste_, Raeken?”

“It was a ghost ship, right? It was found near the coast of Portugal in 1872.”

“She set sail from New York in early November with a thousand barrels of ethanol in her hold. She was found in December by the crew of the _Dei Gratia_ with her lifeboat gone and the barrels still in the hold. No one knows what happened to her crew and she was only found because she was going twelve knots in a stiff wind.”

“So, uh, what’s our plan for getting the _Lupo_ back to port?”

“Gentlemen, what is the only plan in our business?”

“There is no plan,” the others chorus, Raeken glancing around like he’s surrounded by crazy people. He’s probably not far off the mark.

“I’m all for ideas on how to get our fair lady back. I’m drawing a blank right now.” The door of the bridge opens to let Jordan inside, rainwater steaming as it sluices off his shoulders. “Parrish, think we can pull that liner in using the _Beacon_?”

“Not a chance in hell,” Jordan says, shaking his head. “The engine would overheat before we made it a mile.”

“And we can’t just anchor it here while we get some help because the anchors are missing. Danny, any ideas?” Danny takes a moment to think that over, swishing some of the tea around before swallowing.

“I say we take a few days to let Jordan work on the engine. Get it up to par and then haul the ship back to Hudson’s Hope. It’ll take us two weeks, but the money will be worth it. Once we get paid, we can get _Beacon_ fixed up and go from there. Hell, I might even get married first.”

“You should take Jackson back to Paris for your honeymoon. He still won’t shut up about the last time you two went.”

“That’s the idea, Sheriff.”

Stiles is dreaming.

He’s back on the _Lupo_, he can hear the metal groaning as it tries to settle for evening and feel water soaking into his socks. He looks down at his bare feet, struck by the fact that he doesn’t have his boots on. He never leaves the tug without his boots on.

_“Non m'importa della luna….”_ He glances away from his feet when the music starts up, a background noise to focus on. That’s when he notices that the ship isn’t derelict anymore, the archways have golden curtains billowing from them and he can hear the pop of champagne corks. _“Non m'importa delle stele….”_

He follows the sound, barely aware of the floor drying beneath his feet until he steps out of a doorway onto the lower deck. There’s no debris cluttering it now, everything is neatly stored, and people are dancing like it’s their last night on earth. Women and men in evening wear, jewelry glittering and flashing.

Above him, on a higher level meant for the crème de la crème, a woman’s voice is crooning into a microphone. He can see lanterns strung up around the masts, a soft white glow that rivals the moonlight. Stiles wants to go up there, but something inside him tells him to stay put. Bad things are about to happen up there.

A laughing couple grabs his attention when they pass right through him, cheerful specters that don’t realize they’re dead. They join a table that’s set off to the side, holding champagne flutes and ignoring the waitstaff in their dove gray uniforms. One of the waiters looks in Stiles’ direction, a younger man with a cutting smile and green eyes that flash with warning.

_Not human_, says the Spark buried in Stiles’ chest. _Not human, not human_, a mantra that flashes in his mind’s eye.

The waiter’s green eyes fill with black, the whites disappearing under a flood of ink until the eyes more resemble pits than anything. Stiles has never seen anything like it and the scholar in him wants to study it, to take the man apart and find out what makes him tick. But the waiter moves on, carrying a silver tray with a steady hand so as not to drop any glasses.

Stiles moves as well, making his way through the crowd until he reaches the railing. The metal is cold under his hands and he can feel the spray of water misting against his cheeks. This would be a good dream if that crooning would stop, the woman’s voice is too raspy and cold to be seductive. It makes Stiles want to clap his hands over his ears. 

_“Tu per me sei luna e stele….”_

“Wake up, Stiles.” He glances down and to the left, spotting a little girl with gold eyes and a locket hanging around her throat. She’s not smiling, but he recognizes her all the same. She had been on the boat when Scotty fell through the floor. She’s stuck here. “You have to wake up or he won’t let you.”

“What are you talking about,” Stiles asks, but he already knows. The little girl’s eyes are desperate, _pleading_, and Stiles wants to take her away from all this mess. “What happened?”

“_He_ happened.” She jerks her chin in the direction of that waiter from earlier, the disdain practically dripping off her thin shoulders. The waiter glances their way again, skin pulled so taunt that Stiles can see the sharp lines of his cheekbones, the hollow dip behind his nose. “Don’t let him trap you too, Stiles.”

“How do you know my name?” The smile is still gone, but he can make out a hint of it as she reaches out a pale hand to wrap around his wrist. Her fingers burn where they touch his mating bite, green light racing to fill the scar.

“Because you’re connected to the Nemeton, like me. Tates and Stilinskis and Hales have always been connected through the Nemeton.” The answer settles something inside of him, a bone deep knowledge that’s always been lurking on the periphery of thought. His mom used to take him to the Nemeton when he was little, that’s where they did their training.

“Tell me his name,” Stiles says, and he’s the one to indicate the waiter this time. “Who is he? What is he?” The little girl’s lip trembles and her shoulders hunch up around her ears, grip too tight around his wrist. It would leave a bruise if this wasn’t just some dream.

“He’s death.”

Stiles jerks upright in his bunk, sweat cold on his overheated skin and eyes wild as he looks around. The tug is quiet, but he can see a light out on the deck, a single ember that glows orange in the moonlight. _Cigarette_.

He looks at Derek over his shoulder, but the Werewolf is dead to the world, one arm thrown over his eyes and his mouth hanging open. Stiles reaches out and runs a hand over Derek’s warm cheek and the scruff of his beard, relaxing when he realizes he really is awake and back on the _Beacon_. He’s safe.

He pulls on one of Derek’s shirts before making his way out onto the deck, scratching long fingers through his hair. The person smoking is in silhouette, the moonlight drenching him in its soft glow and turning the person white as bone. Stiles’ breath catches in his throat as he remembers hollow eyes and sharp smiles, but then the person is turning, and the effect is gone.

It’s just Raeken, cheeks hollow only because he’s taking a drag off the cigarette. He smiles when he notices Stiles, but his eyes are…. They aren’t exactly glowing but they’re certainly doing something. It’s like light shining through a thin sheet, throwing shadows where there shouldn’t be any.

“Want one?”

“Uh, no,” Stiles shakes his head. “Can’t stand the taste of it.” Or the smell, but he needs to be out of the suffocating heat in the cabin. He wanders over to the railing, glancing up at the _Lupo_. It looms over the tug like a monster, metal glinting wetly under the starlight. Stiles hates it.

“Are you okay, man? You look a little spooked.”

“Bad dream.” Raeken gives a jerky little nod of his head, taking another drag off the cigarette before tossing it into the water. Stiles can hear the fizzle of it going out if he really strains. Raeken sidles up to him and leans his back against the railing, not noticing when the metal digs into the small of his back. “Can I help you?”

“Yeah, you can talk about the dream that brought you out here in the cold.” Stiles snorts and manages a weak smile. “Oh, come on, you can do better than that. Let me see the thousand watt smile that won over Hale.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the other way around?”

“‘Cause the dude looks allergic to happiness. I’m pretty sure he’d break out in hives if he cracked a smile.”

“Actually, he has a really great smile.” Stiles remembers the feeling of victory he had the first time he’d made Derek Hale smile. He’d honestly expected to see an Achievement Unlocked banner unfold in front of him. Unfortunately, as John likes to remind him, life isn’t an Xbox game.

“I’ll take your word for it.” Stiles smiles a little wider this time and Raeken rewards him with a smile of his own. He’s got a nice smile, a nice _everything_ if Stiles is being honest, but there’s still that nagging voice at the back of his mind that warns him away. He’s learned to trust that voice after Matt Daehler turned into a lizard and went on a murderous rampage when Derek refused to let him join the pack.

“Well, I think I’m gonna turn in for the night. Maybe stuff some cotton in my ears to drown out Jordan’s snoring.” Stiles casts one last glance up at the ship before striding back into the tug.

“Sweet dreams, Stiles.” He doesn’t pay much attention to what Raeken calls after him, but he does pauses halfway down the stairs when he hears a faint singing. _“Tu per me sei sole e cielo….”_ He shakes the feeling of dread off and forces himself to walk calmly back to his bunk. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist the second he’s covered up again, dragging him backwards until he’s snuggled against Derek’s chest.

He tries not to think about the way his right wrist is burning.

No matter how many times he does it, Stiles is not a fan of swimming beneath the hulking mass of a ship to document any damage. He hates it. He doesn’t have a discernable reason for _why_ he hates it, can’t put his finger on why his skin feels too tight over his bones once he allows himself to fall backwards into the cold water of the Strait. It just sucks.

He raises the camcorder up to record some of the damage along the keel, a jagged tear letting water completely flood the bulkhead inside the ship. A tear like this should have sunk the ship a long time ago. It has to be at least twenty feet long and more than wide enough for Stiles to swim up into it.

_This is so not good_.

“We need to head back up,” he says through the comms. “Bad news.”

“Always so wonderful to hear,” Danny says, the sarcasm practically dripping from his words. “Let’s hope this shit doesn’t come in threes this time. Jordan, you ready?”

“More than ready,” he mutters. Stiles can only vaguely make him out in the water and that’s only because the water around him is bubbling. Being a Hell Hound is all well and good, but not when you’re diving and your goggles are fogging up. “Stiles, give me a hand?”

“You got it,” Stiles says. He passes the camcorder over to Danny before swimming Jordan’s way, getting an arm around his friend’s waist and leading him up into the sunlight. Raeken is sitting on the edge of the tug when they surface, hope making his eyes bright. “She’s sinking,” Stiles calls up to him. “Tell the others to meet up in the cabin.”

“Are you sure,” Raeken asks, and there’s a tinge of anger beneath the disappointment.

“Pretty fucking sure, man.” He lets out a sharp breath through his nose, then he’s moving while Stiles and Danny help Jordan back onto the _Beacon_. Jordan tosses his goggles aside with a scowl, quickly stripping out of the wetsuit and stepping into a pair of boxers. The other men do the same, Stiles glad to have the tight neoprene off of him.

“Yo, they’re ready!” Danny nods and glances over at Stiles, handing over a pair of worn sweats that smell like Derek. They hang low on Stiles’ hips, the drawstring the only thing keeping them up as he walks downstairs into the main cabin. The crew has dragged up chairs around the small table where they eat, all of them facing the pitiful excuse for a TV.

“Danny, you wanna do the honors?”

“You know,” Danny states,” one day you’re going to have to learn how to do this.” He holds up the camcorder for emphasis before moving to hook it up to the TV. Stiles just shrugs and drops down onto Derek’s lap, absorbing the supernatural warmth and the scent of his mate.

“Nah, that’s why we have you, Danny boy.” Danny rolls his eyes, settling down in a chair with the remote in hand. The TV flickers on after a bout of static, showing Stiles’ shaky camera work. The jagged edges of the tear aren’t as pronounced on the small screen, but Stiles is forever grateful that supernaturals can’t get Tetanus.

“This thing goes on for, like, twenty feet.”

“Any inside damage,” John asks, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Yeah, whatever did this tore right through the port collision bulkhead.” John’s frown deepens, emphasizing the lines age and stress have carved into his face. Is he looking a little washed-out today? Stiles can’t be sure.

“Did she hit an ice burg,” Raeken asks. None of the crew can hold back the derisive snorts, Stiles shaking his head. “What? That’s what did the _Titanic_ in.”

“Yeah, ice didn’t cause a scrape that big. I mean, this is a week old at most.” For a guy that flies over this area every couple of weeks, he sure doesn’t know much about it. It’s not even the right time of year for ice burgs to form. _Not right, he’s a liar, he’s **wrong**_.

“My guess is it hit this group of rocks over here,” Johns says, gesturing to the map he has spread out on the table. He’s been charting a course, Stiles notices. Figuring out where the ship is headed if it stays on this course. “The current the _Lupo_ is stuck in is making her drift this way in a continuous circle. It’s probably how she was damaged to begin with.”

“How long do you think we have to get her fixed,” Jordan asks.

“Three days at the most. That’s if the weather holds.” Derek scoffs and Stiles can feel the rush of warm air against his neck, carrying the scent of Spearmint gum. “Think we can manage it, guys?”

“If we had a magic wand, yeah.”

“But we don’t have one of those,” Scott grouses. “We might be able to patch the inside breach, sure, we can probably even weld the flooded compartments shut.” He pulls a schematic of the _Lupo_ over to him, gesturing as he speaks. “We’ll have to pump the water out and run that all the way to the aft peak. On top of that, the rudder’s jammed and the floor outside the helm is unstable as hell. Stiles is the lightest, so he’d probably be the safest bet in getting to the wheel safely.”

“I can fix the equipment in the helm,” Stiles says. “I’ll just walkie Danny if I get stuck on some techie bullshit and go from there.”

“And I can patch that tear with some help from Scott,” Derek adds. “Three days should be enough for Jordan to get some headway on _Beacon’s_ engine, right?” Jordan nods, eyes flaring a brief orange as he starts running through all the things he’ll have to do. He’s already got a notepad balanced on his knees, scribbling away and not noticing the ink smudging his hands.

“Think you can jerry-rig the rudder, Sheriff,” Scott asks.

“No problem,” John nods. “I’ll set it at a thirty-eight degree course so we can miss the rocks.” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, leg giggling impatiently under the table. It’s a lot of work to be done in just three days, but it’s manageable. They’re the best crew around and it’ll be a hell of a story to tell Mason when they get back. “What do you kids think?”

“I think we got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“Then we’d best get to it.”


	5. Twilight Zone

The gear is loaded up onto a pallet and hauled aboard the _Lupo_ using the wench system, the cables groaning under the weight until the pallet is set on the upper deck. The crew, all apart from Jordan who’s working the wench, move the equipment into the central dining room, setting up a base camp among moldy stuffing and the empty aquarium. It’s one of the more stable rooms on the ship and it’s smack dab in the middle, so it makes for a good place to camp out in.

“Alright, we gotta split up and scout the ship,” John states, hands on his hips. “We’ll go in groups of twos and find anything even resembling tools. Catalogue any problems you find, and we’ll go from there when we meet up this afternoon. Stiles, you want to tell us who’s going where?” Stiles glances up from the notepad in his lap, pulling a pen cap out of his mouth.

“You and Danny are gonna be partners this time around, Pops,” he says. “You’ll check out the rudder.” John nods, clapping a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “Scotty and Derek are going to check out the port collision bulkhead and see how long the welding should take.” Derek and Scott share a look and then nod at Stiles. “Raeken, you’re with me. We’re going through the third level closest to the helm to see if the floor is repairable at all.”

“Sounds good,” Derek nods.

“You all know the drill. Call if you need anything.”

“A pizza would be fantastic. Extra mushrooms and sausage.” Stiles lets out a sarcastic laugh, elbowing his boyfriend’s side lightly.

“You’re just so funny, Der. Really, it’s your sense of humor that dazzled me into dating you.”

“And here I thought it was his bunny teeth,” Scott joins in. “I’d get texts at two in the morning about those teeth. _Oh, they’re so adorable, Scotty. Oh, aren’t they just so cute? Sourwolf is actually Peter Cottontail_. I was ready to barf by the time he got over them.”

“Says the man that practically swooned when Kira agreed to go on a date with him,” Derek shoots back. “You know, Stiles read every single one of those texts out loud, right? _She’s just so perfect, Stiles. What if I mess this up? What if she accidentally singes my tail when we shift for a run?_ Puh-lease.”

“I know about the tattoo on your ass.”

“That’s Peter, you dork.” Derek narrows his eyes, both ‘wolves turning to look at where Stiles is watching the back and forth with obvious glee. “Why does Scott know about the triskelion on Peter’s ass?”

“Because I know about it,” Stiles says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“And why do you know about it?”

“Because you Hales get super moon drunk and tend to walk around naked after a full moon run. It’s why we send Mason off to stay with Dad on those nights.” Derek’s cheeks light up in a dark blush, brows coming together as he glowers at Scott. It’s a silent threat for Scott to keep his comments to himself unless he wants to wake up with all his clothes thrown overboard. Again.

“You know,” John states in clear amusement,” I love these little discussions, I really do. Having some blackmail on Peter will be great for poker nights, but maybe we should get to work.”

“Oh, yeah, good point.” Stiles gets up and clips a utility belt that he’d brought with him around his waist. “C’mon, Raeken, let’s see if we can avoid recreating Scotty’s dramatic exit from yesterday.” Scott scowls but lets it go without comment. He reaches out, brushing his fingers over Stiles’ cheek while Derek does much the same thing, the scent-marking more of a comfort than Stiles likes to admit. “I’ll see you guys in a few.”

“Be careful, son.”

“Same to you, Daddy-O.” John grumbles something under his breath, but his smile is fond as he claps a hand against Stiles’ back. “Alright, Raeken, let’s get this show on the road.” He takes off without waiting for a confirmation, smirking when he hears Raeken’s feet scrambling over a damp rug in his hurry to catch up.

“So, how long have you been doing this,” Raeken asks.

“Since I was eighteen. I was doing paperwork in the office before that, but the salvaging is my favorite part.” He remembers afternoons spent in the kitchen, sunlight pooling over the floor, he and his mom were doing dishes and she’d tell him stories of abandoned ships and hidden treasure to keep his mind on task. “My grandad on my mom’s side used to run this business and my dad took over once he passed.”

“Let me guess, you’re the heir to the throne.” Stiles cracks a smile and shakes his head a little.

“More than likely, yeah. Watch your step, dude.” Raeken glances down in time to see a ratty old curtain draped over the floor, carefully stepping over it and very nearly whacking his head against a rusted curtain rod. “Very graceful, Raeken.”

“Thanks, it’s my best feature.” He’s got a crooked grin and a decent sense of humor, Stiles can appreciate that much.

They continue down the hall and up a flight of stairs, coming out in another short hallway. It dead ends on the right, so they go left and find themselves in a room with small tiles covering the floor and walls. The tiles had been a powder blue once upon a time ago, but now they’re covered in dirt. On the wall farthest from the door is a mural of mermaids floating in a lagoon and human men waving at them from the shore.

There are little stalls on the right side, moth-eaten clothes hanging on tarnished hooks. Near the mural is old pool equipment, inflatable toys that have gone flat and a coil of rope that’s too frayed to help anyone. Benches are clustered along the left side of the room, splintered piles of wood that are better suited to a junkyard now.

Set into the very center of the room is a swimming pool, the deepest end at least six feet. The bottom and sides of the pool are flecked with rust spots, a few holes drilled into the side closest to the doorway. Stiles frowns and moves to the left so that he can see the holes better, brows coming together.

“What is it?” He doesn’t answer Raeken at first, mind racing with all the possibilities. There’s only one that matches the rust stains and holes as wide as Stiles’ thumb. He doesn’t like it. “Stiles?” He holds up an impatient hand, kneeling on the floor and then sliding down into the empty pool.

“Please tell me I’m hallucinating.”

“Hallucinating about what?” The holes stretch the entire ten feel of the back wall, uneven sprays that jump and double up in places. Stiles rubs a gloved hand over one section, finding a spot still filled by whatever had caused the holes. The metal is cold even through the glove, practically molded into the wall by now, and ruined by time. “What caused that?”

“Bullets.” Stiles’ voice is hoarse even to his own ears, but there’s no denying the evidence in front of him. “A whole lot of people got gunned down in here.” He turns his flashlight to the bottom of the pool, a thin layer of scum making it slick. There’s not much debris here, a line of buoys to mark when the pool deepens and….

And spent shell casings. At least two dozen of them.

He sucks in a deep breath and turns his back to the grisly evidence, doing his best to keep tight control on his reflexes. If he panics, then something bad will happen. He doesn’t want to be stuck down in this pool any longer than necessary.

“Get out of there, Stiles,” Raeken says, and there’s an undercurrent of a command in his tone. Part of Stiles that’s still a rebel wants to turn his back on Raeken and stroll to the other end of the pool just to spite him. The part with common sense decides that’s dumb and he needs to haul ass. For once, he actually listens to his common sense.

Stiles crosses over to the short ladder bolted into the concrete and tile, grabbing the rails and pulling up until he can get his foot on the bottom rung of it. He glances up as he moves to the next rung, intending to check that the bolts aren’t too rusted to support his weight and instead meeting the familiar shine of gold irises set into the moon pale face of a little girl.

He lets go of the railing in surprise, balancing for a precarious second as he looks into the desperate eyes of the Tate girl from his dreams. Her hands are clasped in front of her and her locket flashes briefly in the glow of the flashlight. He has time to wonder if Raeken can see her before he’s toppling backwards. His head hits the cement hard enough to bounce, a dull ache spreading down in neck in thick tendrils until even thinking about moving hurts. Stiles can hear Raeken’s clumsy footsteps, the sound of rubber soles squeaking against metal, and then there’s a warm hand cupping his cheek.

“Are you okay?” Stiles squints up at Raeken, then flicks his gaze back to the ladder. No little girl is standing there now, it’s just the two men in the room. Panic spikes through his chest as he remembers his mother, how Claudia swore that Stiles was trying to kill her. Dementia can be inherited.

“Did you see her,” he gasps, gripping onto Raeken’s forearm with strength of a drowning man latching onto a life ring. “Did you see the little girl?” Raeken’s brows furrow and he glances over his shoulder at the ladder, something hard flitting across his face before he shakes his head.

“All I saw was you losing your balance.” Stiles forces himself to take a deep breath, counting them out until his heartbeat is steady. He’s just tired is all, a lack of sleep can cause you to see things. He’s not sick. He can’t be. “Are you okay? Should I radio one of the others?”

“No, I’ll be fine.” He sits up with Raeken’s help, the cut at the back of his head already knitting closed. It’ll take an hour or so for the throbbing pain to subside, but Stiles has had worse. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Stiles actually makes it up the ladder this time around, Raeken following behind him towards a new doorway.

Neither of them notices the way Stiles’ blood is absorbed into the concrete or the six people staring up at them with glowing eyes from the bottom of the pool.

The first level is just as dilapidated as the others, rust scaling over the doors and fixtures. John’s flashlight is dimly reflected in the mess of rust and water-stained wallpaper, a barely there thing would probably be bright as sunlight to supernatural eyes. John’s human, though, so he does his best to avoid running into anything.

“Remind me again how the two humans always end up together,” Danny mumbles from somewhere behind John. “Light.” There’s a brief hum of electricity and then the flood light is on, making John’s flashlight basically useless.

“Because the two humans have more common sense than the six supernaturals combined.”

“What about Raeken?”

“Raeken….” John trails off, thinking of the way the man portrays a clumsy façade that’s more akin to a Charlie Chaplin film than real life. “I don’t think Raeken has the common sense needed to fight his way out of a paper sack.”

“He’s just a weird dude.” John nods, making a left at the next curve. There’s a sign bolted to the wall with an arrow pointing straight ahead beneath it, _Cabina Di Capitano _written in bold brushstrokes. John turns as Danny tries to follow him, flicking the beam of his light over to the sign. “Seriously?” John arches his brows, an expression he and Stiles have down to an art form. “Alright, _Capitano_, have fun.”

“Try not to fall over anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Danny holds up a finger that’s impolite in mixed company, heading down the hall to the right of John. He cracks a fond smile at the kid’s back before making his way down the hall towards the very last door. The captain’s cabin is just as water-logged as the other rooms they’ve passed, the walls holding framed pictures of other Italian liners, extravagant things that make the _Lupo_ look like a poor relation.

“Not bad, all things considered.” The furniture is old and stained but will sell for a pretty penny once Cora restores them to their former glory. New silk cloth over the chairs, some dark stain to set off the gold color and John can sell these chairs for a hundred bucks apiece.

The beam of light catches on something in one of the seats, John reaching out to pick it up. The captain’s hat, a worn-out thing that’s definitely seen better days. He stuffs it in his bag all the same, a souvenir for Mason.

The connecting bathroom can barely be called that at all, a cramped space even before the ceiling had collapsed in the middle of it. The toilet bowl is cracked on one side and the tub is filled with moldering timber, but the sink is what catches his attention. Aside from the bottom of the basin, it’s in pristine condition; the porcelain has no cracks, the sterling silver fixtures clear of any staining. It’s almost too good to believe. The almost, unfortunately, is as close as the sink gets because there is a stain in the bottom of the basin. It’s a deep maroon color that flecks under John’s nail, making an old straight razor stick until John gives it a good tug. The razor is coated in the gunk, the blade stuck open in a ready position. It doesn’t exactly bode well for whoever was on the other end of this fifty years ago.

He drops the razor back into the sink and takes two healthy steps out of the room, something sour twisting in his gut. Between this and the lack of distress signal, he’s beginning to think the _Lupo_ was subject to a mutiny. He’s turning to leave the cabin altogether when he spots something, something that just doesn’t belong in this picture. A freshly poured tumbler of whiskey.

“Danny, are you in here,” he calls out. There’s no answer and nowhere for him to be hiding. John’s alone. “I’m going crazy.” He shakes his head, wandering over to the glass and picking it up. There’s a hint of spice when he sniffs at it, like no whiskey John’s ever smelled before. He’s tempted to take a sip of it, but then he thinks _four years, Johnny_. A toast won’t hurt, then he’ll set the glass down and walk out. “Well, here’s to you, Cap.” He raises the glass, eyes catching on the circular mirror directly in front of him.

The reflection that’s staring back at him doesn’t belong to John.

The hall Danny’s walking down seems to lead to nowhere, just a winding path that takes him past musty bedrooms and an elevator shaft. He can see the elevator at the bottom, busted into jagged pieces of metal and a tangle of cables. He feels bad for anyone that might have been in that thing when it crashed because there’s no way to survive that mess.

He shakes his head, moving further down and out of earshot of John. There should be a set of stairs leading into the hull somewhere around here, an inconspicuous thing to keep curious guests from going out of bounds. Once in the hull it’ll be easy for Danny and John to find the rudder and set to work on it. Until then, however, he might as well entertain himself with exploring the rooms.

Most of the doors are unlocked, the 1960’s were more trusting time apparently, but one knob refuses to turn under Danny’s hand. The brass is cold even though his gloves, stuck in place no matter how hard Danny tries to make it give. Stubborn above all else, he rams his shoulder against the door a couple of times until the frame cracks and the door swings open with an agonized groan.

The room is extravagant, a four-poster bed with lace curtains, furniture polished to a dark shine. Overhead, sunlight shines in through the portholes and catches on a miniature chandelier, the crystals painting the walls in a rainbow of color. The rug under Danny’s feet is from Asia, the rich greens and blues painting a jungle scene that should be comforting. Instead, it just reminds him of that old Stephen King book Jackson had loved in high school.

He steps inside, moving over to a vanity set against the right wall near a wardrobe. There are diamond earrings set out on a velvet cloth, a matching necklace and bracelet set beneath them. Hanging on the wardrobe door is a dress in deep blue, made up of fine silk with little metal hooks in the back to keep it closed, a pair of matching silk gloves thrown over the top.

Danny steps away from the outfit, wandering into a bathroom that’s gleamingly clean. The white tiles on the floor have no traces of grime, the tub shining under the glow of his flashlight. There’s a glass shelf over the sink, boasting an array of perfume bottles and soap carved into the shape of a rose. If he focuses, he can still smell a hint of the perfume spread throughout the cabin, a flowery scent that he likes.

_“Senza fine, sei un attimo senza fine.”_ Danny spins on his heel, expecting to find someone in the room with him. He steps back into the bedroom, glancing under the bed and in the full wardrobe for whoever had been singing. The only interesting thing he finds under the bed is a dust bunny the size of his fiancé’s ego, the wardrobe only holding moth-eaten dresses. “_Non hai ieri non hai domani.”_

“Danny here,” he says through the walkie. He waits a moment but gets no reply. “Hey, John, are you there? I got some interference going on here.” There’s a crackle of static, but it’s not the Sheriff that he hears speaking through the garbled noise.

_“Tutto è ormai nelle tue mani, mani grandi mani senza fine….”_ He feels like he’s in the first five minutes of a Twilight Zone episode, an innocent crewman stuck in an alternate dimension and never able to see his friends again. The thought sends a shiver racing down his spine and he hightails it for the door, tripping over the doorplate and nearly falling headfirst down the empty elevator shaft. He grabs the twisted door just in time to stop himself, one foot swinging out over the yawning darkness.

“John!” Danny throws himself backwards, barely noticing the way the metal tears through his glove and into the meat of his palm. The sliding doors of the shaft have been warped by time and water, probably crawling with all kinds of nasty bacteria, but Danny isn’t really worried about that right now. He’s more focused on the feminine voice echoing from the room he just fled.

_“_ _Non m'importa della luna….”_

“Fuck this shit.”

Iron steps creak alarmingly under Derek’s boots as he and Scott slowly work their way to the bulkhead. The entire ship groans with each wave that splashes against its sides, the sound of old iron ready to give in and just burst. The sounds make Derek want to grind his teeth, like nails scraping over a chalkboard.

“You okay, dude?”

“I’m fine,” Derek mutters, skating bare fingers over rusted metal. They come out on a short platform, looking out at the seven feet of water that waits below them. The tear is down there, beneath broken pipes and all that sloshing green water. Fantastic.

“Aw man, it’s gonna take us forever to get this thing repaired.”

“Yeah but think of the money we’ll get when we haul this thing back to port.” He can hear Scott hum out a response behind him, the sound of his sneakers scraping against the catwalk. “I can finally take Stiles back to California for a month.”

“And I can get that engagement ring for Kira.” All the possibilities stretch out in front of Derek, things that will actually be in arm’s reach once they all get their pay checks. Vacations, weddings, top shelf booze, good things. “First we gotta figure out how to pump all that water out and close the tear.” Yeah, hard work before bourbon. As always. Derek pulls the walkie off his belt, pressing the button on the side before speaking into it.

“Stiles, the engine room is totally flooded.” There’s a whine of white noise when Derek waits for an answer, for anything. “Stiles, can you hear me?” Another brief whine, the sound of wires trying to short out. “What the hell is wrong with this thing? It was working just fine the other day.”

“Let me see it.” Derek holds the walkie out for Scott to take, watching as he speaks into it and gets no response. “Maybe all the metal is screwing with it. That happens on old ships like this one.” Derek isn’t so sure, not when the walls are so thin that he can hear mice scampering around on the upper decks.

_“Tu trascini la nostra vita….”_ The words come out garbled, clear in spots and almost swallowed by white noise in others. _“…. Senza un attimo di respiro.”_

“Is Stiles fucking with us?”

“No,” Derek shakes his head. “Whoever’s singing is doing it in Italian and Stiles doesn’t know that language.” Stiles is fluent in Spanish, English and Polish, and he’s rusty in Tolkien’s Elvish, but he’s never expressed a desire to learn Italian. “Also, the singer is a woman.” Scott makes a low sound, staring at the walkie like it’s grown a second antenna.

“So who’s singing to us?”

“Ghosts?”

“Yeah, sounds about right.” Scott’s grin is lopsided when Derek turns to gaze at him, baring straight teeth with just a hint of sharpened canines. Most people would call a grin like that predatory, but most people haven’t seen Scott McCall dive in front of Finstock’s high end lawn mower to protect a bunny either. It’s just a grin that means Scott wants to cause mischief.

“What?”

“Let’s prank Stiles and Raeken.”

Considering all the work they have cut out for them, Derek can stand to cause a little mischief himself.

Stiles and Raeken end up in the central laundry room by some stroke of luck, damp sheets crowding the floor in piles that come up to Stiles’ hip, others draped across machines that haven’t worked in decades. He’s careful as he navigates the room, trying to avoid tripping over the sheets or occasional pillowcase.

“Looks like these guys were interrupted in the middle of a shift,” Raeken comments.

“Seems like it.” There’s a rat sitting in the middle of a comforter on one of the machines, red eyes glowing in the beam of the flashlight. It lets out a shrill noise and darts off into the deep shadows, pink tail thunking against the edge of a pillow and sending feathers into the air. His eyes follow a single feather towards a door on the far left side of the room, the feather doing a flip before finally spiraling to the floor.

“Ugh, I hate rats.”

“Believe me, they’re not overly fond of us either.” He moves with a careful ease through the room, using the flashlight to bring down a spectacularly woven spiderweb before he makes it to where the feather had landed. “Come here and help me with this thing.”

“Aren’t Sparks supposed to have more strength than normal people?” Stiles scoffs, tucking his flashlight away and resting his hands on the crusted wheel set in the middle of the door. “What? That’s what my aunt said.”

“Your aunt, like most Druids, is full of shit. Our senses are enhanced, but we’re not exactly Bizarro.” Raeken gives Stiles a blank look, one hand coming up to scratch at his cheek. “You know, _Bizarro_? The clone of Superman that fights with Jason Todd and Artemis.” The blank expression doesn’t change. “You gotta read more comics, dude.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“This is the ventilation shaft,” Stiles explains, gesturing at the door. “The laundry personnel would have it opened while they worked to keep from getting overheated. It also connects to the forward hold, the place where cargo is stored. If it’s not flooded, then we can get to the hold and see if there are any goodies that water damage and time haven’t warped to beat hell.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Listen, buddy, if I hand this ship over to someone only to find out the winning lotto ticket was tucked inside some old lady’s drawers, I’m gonna be really pissed at myself. Now, are you gonna help me or not?”

“Yeah, alright. Chill out.” They turn the wheel together, the mechanisms on the other side clanking against each other until the door flies open without warning, a gush of water knocking Stiles backwards. He grabs onto a dress hanging off one of the crisscrossing clotheslines, pulling himself up out of the musty water.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!” The water carries bodies into the room, at least six of them splashing down in varying stages of decay. Stiles sucks in shallow breaths, but he can still smell the soured-pork scent of dead things, like a hamburger that’s been left out too long in the sun. “Raeken!” A hand wraps around his ankle and he can’t control the way he jerks backwards, nearly overbalancing. Raeken’s head pops out of the water, the hand releasing Stiles’ ankle once Raeken’s standing.

“What the fuck?”

“I don’t know, man.” The flesh on the closest corpse is doughy, hanging loosely off the skull and missing chunks from where rats have been at it. That’s not even the most disturbing part of standing in a room filled with dead people. The most disturbing part is that they’re still _fresh_. He can make out four men and two women, various ethnicities. God, he thinks he might be sick.

“How long do you think they’ve been here?” Raeken’s on the verge of panicking, hands scrubbing nervously through his hair and cheeks losing all color. “I mean, they should be skeletons, right?”

“These guys haven’t even been here a full month.” That digital watch must have belonged to this crew, but how the fuck did they all manage to get stuck in a ventilation shaft? “We gotta get the fuck off this ship.”

“You think?” His voice is high, riding the line of hysterical, and he wears an expression of dumb shock when Stiles’ hand connects with his cheek. His head snaps to the side from the force of the slap, a handprint already reddening the paled skin. “What the fuck, Stiles?”

“I know this is all kinds of creepy, but you gotta stick a pin in it. Panic when we’re back on _Beacon_.”

“But we’re surrounded by dead guys!”

“I know! And guess what? Panicking isn’t going to suddenly bring them back to life! Now shut up while I call my dad!” His hands are wet and the walkie nearly slips right out of them, but Stiles manages to hold onto it. “Pops, are there? We could use a little help.” All he gets in return is static, and barely that. “Dad? Derek?”

“Maybe the plates….?”

“No, these things cost more than my car. They should work no matter what.” He slaps the side of the walkie and tries to call out again, but he doesn’t even get static this time. “Alright, screw this. We’re rounding up the others and calling the fucking Coast Guard.”

“But what about the ship?”

“Let the bitch sink. Come on!” They make their way back to the stairs and up to the door that had let them in, but the thing is closed and the bolt has been lodged home. “What in the hell?” The bolt refuses to be pulled back and the door doesn’t so much as creak when Stiles slams his shoulder into it.

“We just came through here.”

“No shit!” He rams against the door again, but it doesn’t budge under his weight. “I guess we’re finding another way out.”

“But the bodies—”

“They’re dead, Raeken. Unless there’s a necromancer onboard, then they aren’t going to hurt us.”

“Wait, necromancers are real?” Stiles pauses and has to massage away a migraine from the stupidity of that question. He really hates dealing with people outside of his family. They all tend to suck.

“No, dumbass, I was being sarcastic. Necromancers are about as real as ghosts.” He shoulders past Raeken, heading back down the stairs and into the water. He tries his best not to touch the corpses, gaze focused on the ventilation shaft. There’s still water sloshing inside of it, but all the bodies seem to have been flushed out and Stiles will call that a win. “Come on, Raeken!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” The shaft isn’t long, and Stiles doesn’t even have to duck as he walks down it, flashlight illuminating the busted pipes and another open doorway up ahead. The doorway leads to the cargo hold, rusted chains hanging from the ceiling and old crates filling the massive space. Across the way is another opened hatch and a car that would have Jordan swooning. Stiles doesn’t have an affinity for cars, his own Jeep is held together by duct tape and hope at this point. “Holy shit! Do you know what that is?”

“A car that’s seen better days?” Raeken sprints over to the dilapidated thing, not noticing the scum covering it as he rans a hand over the door.

“This is the car of my dreams, Stiles. It’s a fifty-eight Jaguar X150!” Stiles takes a step closer, then another and another until he’s standing directly on front of the car. One of the headlights is busted and the wipers are stuck to the windshield by a layer of something wet and red. Whatever the red gunk is, it’s dripping from a nearby hook as well, the chain swaying in an invisible wind.

“Could you do me a favor and save the fanboy routine for when we’re off this ship? We need to get out of here.”

“But—”

“That wasn’t a request, Raeken!” He’s got a hand fisted in Raeken’s jacket and ready to haul him the rest of the way down the ventilation shaft when a slight movement catches his eye. Just over Raeken’s shoulder, in the anteroom for mail, is something alive.

“What?”

“Something’s moving in there.” Could it be a survivor of the last crew? A pile of rats? Whatever it is, it’s got a pile of mail bags pulsing up and down, in sync with Stiles’ breathing. He edges closer, spotting a trunk stuck beneath the bags, the front edge of it rising up and down, up and down.

“What is it?”

“Well, gee, how about I use my x-ray vision to find out?” Raeken’s eyes roll up towards the ceiling and Stiles can practically read the _I should’ve kept my mouth shut_ tattooed on his forehead.

Not wanting to get too close in case there’s another nasty surprise waiting on them, Stiles uses part of an old pipe to knock the heavy bags off of the chest, hooking the end under the lip of the crate and flipping the lid open. Raeken lets out a high-pitched shriek behind him, jumping backwards at the sight of rats.

“You big baby,” Stiles grumbles. He uses the pipe to make the rats jump out of the crate, the pink-tailed plague carriers scrambling away. What he finds nestled in the chest has his breath catching in his throat. Gold bars. Twenty-six of them. “This is way better than a lotto ticket.”

“What do we do now?” Stiles bends down and picks up one of the gold bars from the nesting of straw, stuffing it in one of the loops of his utility belt.

“Now we go get my dad.” He grabs Raeken’s wrist and tugs the man after him, back into the ventilation shaft and onwards until they come out in another hallway. There’s a thin sheen of water on the walls, but the floor is mostly dry and intact. There’s no warped metal plates or jagged holes leading to the depths of hell, which makes this hallway Stiles’ favorite.

He and Raeken are halfway down the hall when the walkie comes to life, white noise crackling like tin foil. He brings it up and presses the button on the side before talking. “This is Stiles.” He waits a moment and is just about to speak again when a voice filters through.

_“Mieczysław….”_

“Who the hell is Mieczysław,” Raeken asks, brows coming together over green eyes.

“I am,” Stiles says, staring down at the walkie in confusion. No one’s actually used his Christian name since Claudia died and the only person on the crew that can even pronounce it is his dad. The voice on the walkie doesn’t belong to John, it’s raspy and distorted but Stiles can pick his dad’s voice out in the middle of a hurricane.

_“Mieczysław_,” coos the voice through the walkie. _“I’m so cold.”_

“Sounds like we’re headed for the galley.”

“Why the galley,” Raeken asks, stumbling over his own feet in an effort to keep up.

“Because the galley is the only place on this entire ship with cold storage.”

They head down a flight of stairs and to the left, wandering until they find a plaque bolted to a wall with an arrow beneath it, _La Cambusa_ printed in bold black letters. They follow the hall until they come into the kitchen, stainless steel tables gleaming dully under the yellow glow of the flashlight. Stovetops are caked in old food that’s spoiled, mold streaking up the tile walls like growths of ivy.

Dead ahead is the cold storage, the door partially open and letting out small gusts of cool air. Stiles inches forward, reaching out to grip the handle, part of it coming loose and falling to the ground with a small _clink_ of metal. He swings the door open as fast as he can, bringing up the flashlight.

The storage room is filled with clear plastic bags, the outlines of bones barely visible when Stiles brings his flashlight around in an arc. The smell is musty, a room that’s been closed up for too long, but there’s an undercurrent of spices. He creeps forward, shivering when the bags brush against his shoulders as he passes them. He can feel the hard bones of long dead animals.

“Hello,” he calls out, the words echoing off the walls and back to him. For a brief hysterical moment he thinks back to that Grinch movie where an echo called Jim Carrey an idiot. If that happens in here, he can’t promise that he won’t collapse into a fit of nervous giggles. “Is someone in here?”

A light flashes on in the bag directly in front of Stiles, a ghostly face pressed against the plastic with its mouth open in an ear-piercing screech of horror. Stiles flinches back, letting out a shout of his own as he turns to book it. He makes it four feet, can see the glow of Raeken’s flashlight, before another shrouded figures steps in front of him, howling its rage.

Stiles’ fight or flight reflex has always been a fickle thing and he finds his fist reacting before the thought even crosses his mind, colliding with the creature in front of him. The creature drops with another howl, this one full of pain a completely familiar from sparring practices out in the backyard of the Mahealani-Whittemore house.

“Derek,” Stiles wheezes out. He spins on his heel and rips the covering off the other spector, letting out an angry hiss when Scott’s revealed. He wonders if a solid punch to the left side of the ‘wolf’s face would even out that crooked jawline. “You assholes!”

“Relax, bro,” Scott says around a laugh. “It was just a joke.”

“I’m not really feeling up to jokes right now.” He rips the plastic sheet off of Derek and half drags him out of the freezer. Scott follows behind him, bright grin dimming to a soft smile. “We just found a bunch of dead guys floating in the laundry room and _this_—” he slams the gold bar down on a tabletop “—in the cargo hold.”

“And to think all we found was a good hiding spot to prank you.”


	6. Unmarked

Jordan glances up when the walkie crackles to life, a string of gibberish that sounds vaguely like music before Danny’s voice comes through loud and clear. _“Yo, Jordan, can you hear me?”_

“I hear you,” Jordan confirms, hands leaving a smear of oil across the black plastic. He’s got the stuff coating him all the way up to his elbows and the engine nowhere close to being up to snuff to pull the _Lupo_ into port. “Everything good up there?”

_“Not exactly. Go out to the aft and I’ll let down a ladder for you. We’re holding a vote.” _

“On my way.” He sets the walkie aside, using a dirty cloth to at least make some headway in getting the mess off of him. He’s still working on getting the thick crust of black off his arms when he comes out on deck, stuffing the rag in his back pocket as a rope ladder unfurls from above him. “Is it steady?”

“Steadiest thing on this ship,” Danny calls down to him. He’s got the other end securely tied to the gunwale and both hands gripping the top rung just in case. Jordan trusts Danny, making his way up the ladder as gracefully as one can when the thing holding them up keeps wiggling with every gust of wind.

“So what’s going on,” he asks once he’s on the deck.

“Stiles and Raeken found some gold bars in the ship’s hold and Sheriff wants to hold a vote about what to do.” Jordan nods, walking side by side with Danny as they head into the ship and up a level. The hallways are narrow in places, green sludge dripping from an archway and onto the sleeve of Jordan’s ratty tee.

The others are waiting in the anteroom of the hold, John waiting with a broken pipe in one hand. Jordan nods to him and John nods back before jamming the pipe against the edge of the chest, flipping the lid open to reveal twenty-five gold bars glimmering in the dimness. They look like something out of a movie and Jordan’s almost convinced that Zorro will be by any second to steal them away and give them to the people.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. He wants to reach out and pluck one from the box, to see if they’re as smooth under his hands as he thinks they’ll be. There’s a prickling sensation along his right palm seconds before Raeken begins to laugh, a deep-from-the-belly sound that fills the entire ship with excitable energy. “Do you guys know what his means?”

“It means we’re rich,” Scott says, landing punch against Raeken’s shoulder. The human flinches at the contact and takes half a step away, but there’s a steady stream of giggles rolling off his tongue like he can’t control them. “I can take Kira and her parents anywhere they want as an apology for being gone so often!”

“And I can finally fix up my car.”

“And I can take Jackson back to Paris before he loads Mason up and goes without me,” Danny says. “After that, we can invest and settle down, finally get a chance to be foster parents for an unwanted Were.”

“How about we move the crate out of the stuffy rat-infested storage room,” Derek suggests with an amused tilt to his lips. He and Scott haul the crate into the larger room, John and Stiles moving to sit on an old car riddled with bullet holes. Jordan settles on top of a small pile of crates, the contents long since disintegrated.

“Let’s get them out and take stock,” John commands in a no-nonsense tone that even has Raeken’s giggles trailing off. “Derek, you do the honors.” Derek nods, dragging another crate over to sit on while he works. Stiles hands over a bar that he’d had in his utility belt, letting his mate add it to the ever-growing pyramid.

Raeken wanders back into the storage room, poking and prodding with the broken pipe John had left in there. Jordan’s more focused on his pack, the way they form a semi-circle around Derek without even thinking about it. He’s the Alpha, the technical leader of their pack even if he isn’t the leader of their crew.

“Uh, guys,” Raeken calls, the sound of wood cracking preceding him. “You better come take a look at this.” John and Scott are the ones that leave the formation, and Jordan can hear the sharp inhales of breath when they see whatever it is that’s captured Raeken’s attention.

“How many bars are in that crate, Der,” John calls back over his shoulder.

“Fifty-two,” Derek says. “There was a second row hidden under the first.”

“Well, we got six more cases in here and each one of them has more gold.” There turn out to be seven cases in total, each holding fifty-two bars of gold. It’s more than enough to fix up Jordan’s car, it’s enough to buy an entire collection of old muscle cars and fix them up. This kind of money means he’d be set for life.

“How much do you think is there, Sheriff,” Jordan asks, listening to the steady beat of his pack’s hearts. John takes a minute to think it over, scratching at his barely-there stubble as he does the math.

“Maybe a little over three hundred million bucks.” It’s enough to make Jordan want to cry. Who knew a ship like this could have something so perfect waiting onboard? If Raeken were his type, Jordan would kiss him.

“That’s great, but what about markings,” Danny asks, hands on his hips. “I’m not gonna buy two tickets to Paris only to have Homeland Security tackle me halfway to the gate.”

“No markings,” Derek says, holding one of the bars up. All the supernaturals in the room can see the fine grooves carved into the bottom, where serial numbers have been filed away by a steady hand. No markings mean they can’t be traced, no markings mean stolen treasure.

“Maybe that’s why the ship disappeared,” Stile murmurs.

“But what about those guys you and Raeken found,” Scott asks. “I mean, I’m fine with the theory that this gold is tied to the sixties, but those dudes haven’t even been dead a full month. Why didn’t they take the gold and leave?”

“Maybe the ship didn’t want them to,” Danny muses. He flushes when the others look over at him, his heart stumbling once before falling back into its normal rhythm. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m pretty sure there’s something wrong with the _Lupo_.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean I heard a woman’s voice earlier.” He rakes a hand down his face, blunt nails leaving thin red lines behind. “I was going through the rooms on the first floor and found this one that was…. It was totally devoid of any type of damage. I mean, there was still jewelry and a dress laid out and the bathtub practically freaking sparkled. I was looking around and my walkie started to act up, I could hear some chick singing something in Italian. Couldn’t really make the words out that well because they were—”

“Garbled,” Derek cuts in. His green eyes have gone hard as he looks around the room, lips pressed into a thin line that leaches all color from them. “Yeah, Scott and I heard it too.”

“I just have a bad feeling. I’m only a human, I know that, but my gut is telling me that some pretty shady shit went down. Whatever made this thing vanish in the sixties or killed that last crew, I don’t want to be another notch in its belt.”

“Should we alert the Coast Guard,” Stiles asks, posing the question to the room at large.

“Hell no,” Derek says, firm. “If the gold does turn out to be stolen then we won’t ever see it again.”

“Not technically,” John says. “According to maritime law, anything found in international waters belongs to the finders. There’s nothing the Coast Guard can do except get their panties wound up in a bunch.”

“Finders keepers,” Jordan says. Raeken’s eyes clear of confusion and he makes a noise of understanding low in his throat, nodding. “Losers can kiss our asses.” Raeken chuckles at that, a sound like an avalanche sliding down a steep mountainside. The sound puts Jordan on edge, the fine hairs on his arms standing on end.

“Time for the vote. Who says we take the gold and leave the ship?” They each raise their hands one by one, their smiles growing sharp in anticipation. The prickling sensation along his palm grows stronger, but lessons when he scratches over it. “Then lets get to work.”

In the end, Danny and Jordan head back to get the _Beacon _prepared for the return trip home while the others gather their tools and the gold together in one neat pile on the upper deck. Danny heads to the helm while Jordan goes down into the engine room, packing up his tools and chattering excitedly to the picture of his car.

“And you know the best part,” he asks, tossing a wrench down in the toolbox. “I don’t have to share my money with anyone! I can pay off all those student loans in one swoop and never have to worry about if I can afford something other than instant ramen. I’ll be set for life!”

“_Danny_,” John says over the walkie,” _get those engines going. I’m bringing the gold down now.”_

_“You got it, Sheriff,”_ Danny answers and Jordan can hear the smile in his voice. Jordan can taste the excitement on his tongue, honey and sunshine and summertime. It’s the taste of the first S’mores of the season, sweetness bursting along his taste buds like fireworks. “_I hope you got this baby working, Parrish. Boss man says it’s time to go_.”

“More than ready,” Jordan says to no one in particular.

He slams the lid of his toolbox closed and kicks it under his workbench, dancing around until he’s got the picture of a Rolls-Royce Wraith in his hands to kiss. He’s going home and he’s going to binge watch all of Cutthroat Kitchen in his boxers. He’s moving to the door of the engine room when a smell catches his attention, the scent of propane and the copper of stripped wires.

“Danny—” But it’s already too late, the engines come to life with a beautiful purr, electricity humming and catching on the propane until Jordan’s world is a ball of white gas hurtling straight for him.

Derek doesn’t dream very often and never so vividly; flashes of color, of scent, the feeling of pack surrounding him. It’s always vague and slips through his fingers like sand when he wakes up. This time he dreams he’s on the _Lupo_, standing alone in a sea of people. The humans group together in threes and fours, chattering excitedly about something. When he closes his eyes and focuses, he can make out pieces of sentences.

_“Treasure….”_

_“Unmarked….” _

_“Ours to take….” _

_“Let them drown….”_

He lets out his breath in a hiss between his teeth, turning on his heel and stalking away from the noise. His boots click against the floor, shining brilliantly under the sunlight. He can feel the warmth spreading over him, a golden glow as he comes to stand near the railing. If he squints and lets his eyes bleed red, he can make out a capsizing ship fifty feet away in the open ocean.

“Do you recognize the ship, Mister Hale?” He glances down at the little girl standing at his elbow. She’s wearing a blue dress that shimmers palely in the sunshine, her hair falling in chocolate brown waves around her shoulders.

“Should I?” She dips her head in a slow nod, gold eyes flicking back to the wreckage. He follows her gaze, barely making out the name painted on the ship’s side. _SS Chimera_. It makes a bell ring distantly in his mind, some old ghost story he’d heard from John after one too many drinks. “What do you know about it?”

“The crew just robbed it.” Her gaze meets his and there’s a heavy sort of grief caught in them, something that makes the circles beneath her eyes that much darker. “Don’t take the treasure when it’s offered to you, Mister Hale. He’ll mark you if you do.”

“Who are you talking about?” She points one pale finger at a man in a black suit, the dark color making him seem bone white. His cufflinks flash in the light as spidery fingers comb back his hair. “Who is that?” But the little girl doesn’t answer, one of her small hands curling in his own. He clasps it on instinct, remembering all the times Mason’s done this exact same thing.

“You need to wake up now, Mister Hale. You’re drowning.”

The first sensation Derek becomes aware of is the water in his lungs, making them feel heavy in his chest. The second is the sturdy hand pressed over his chest, pushing with brute strength and sparks of magic that make his shirt sizzle in places until the water is rushing up Derek’s windpipe and he has to flip onto his side to spit it out.

Stiles is hovering over him, cheeks pale with water beaded along his chin, dripping down into the soaked remnants of his favorite Iron Man tee. Derek can’t say anything at first, tongue heavy in his mouth and ash on his tongue. He can hear the others, shouting and splashing violently somewhere in the water below, all of them calling out a name. Derek knows without having to ask that their packmate isn’t going to answer.

“He’s dead.” The words are forced out past clenched teeth, a punched-out grunt of pain that echoes the aching in his chest. It’s never a pleasant thing to lose someone in the pack, another stalactite of scar tissue cutting through his ribcage. “Oh God, Stiles….”

“I know, Der.” Stiles’ voice comes out in a choked whimper, shoulders hunching as tears join the water on his cheeks. Derek wants to reach out and draw his mate close, to feel Stiles’ heartbeat under his stinging palm, but he can’t make his limbs work. He can’t even twitch his fingers as Scott lets out an enraged roar.

“Jordan- Jordan, he’s….” The word sticks in his throat and he can’t make it come out again, he just can’t. Stiles is nodding, he understands as he presses a cold hand flat over Derek’s chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. Stiles’ nails dig in through the Henley, leaving crescent marks that heal as quickly as he can press them into Derek’s skin.

“We need to get inside.” Derek forces himself to nod, pushing himself up into a sitting position and letting Stiles pull him to his feet. “Come on.” Derek glances over his shoulder as Stiles leads him away, he looks at the debris floating across water, sees flames reflected in waves like cut glass, and a little girl with the weight of the world on her thin shoulders.

The crew of the _Beacon_ drift into the ballroom in ones and twos, water-logged shoes squeaking with every step. Scott is supporting Danny, Raeken supporting John, battle buddies. It’s the wrong combination, everything about the situation is wrong but seeing John supported by someone other than Jordan makes something in his stomach sour.

Scott makes Danny sit down in one of the armchairs, grabbing the first aid kit that had been forgotten on a table in their haste to leave. There’s a gash running diagonal along Danny’s temple, the blood already clotting. It’s shallow, requiring nothing more than some antiseptic and superglue. Scott does a pain drain in spite of that, black lines crawling up his arm and disappearing beneath the ragged sleeve of his shirt.

“D-do you think Jordan just rushed with the engines,” Danny asks after a long while of silence. The quiet hangs around them like a dense fog, like the weed had just forty-eight hours ago. “Maybe the gas caps weren’t on tight enough.”

“He wasn’t that careless,” Derek says. Jordan had a process and he didn’t give the okay to leave until that process had been done three times just to make sure nothing like this ever happened. Jordan was always careful. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

“But it did,” John sighs, voice muffled behind his hands. “There’s nothing we can do to change it.” Derek can feel the scar tissue spreading, each new thread of it making the blood flow sluggish on the way to his heart. He wonders if the others feel the same pressure. John heaves out a weary sigh, striding out of the room with a bent head and water sliding down his nape. Stiles follows John after giving him a three minute head start and Derek can smell the chemical stench of anguish clouding the room.

“I have….” Scott trails off and winces, his hand making an aborted gesture to cover his nose. “I can’t….” Derek gets up without hesitation, marching over to his Beta and wrapping him up in a firm hug, letting Scott bury his nose in Derek’s stomach. Scott’s shoulders heave as he sobs and Derek’s grip doesn’t slack, the ‘wolves just holding each other. They need this, both of them need the comfort after….

The room smells of salt once Scott’s tears finally dry up and Derek thinks of the Adriatic Sea, the day his mother had loaded all the pups up for an adventure on the last afternoon of their vacation in the Mediterranean. The water had splashed against the side of the little boat and Derek had solemnly decided that he would be a captain when he grew up. Laura still sends him eye patches every birthday, once an entire freaking peg leg.

“Is Sheriff okay,” Danny asks. Derek doesn’t have to open his eyes to know his mate’s in the room, Stiles’ rabbit fast heartbeat easing some of the tightness in his chest.

“No,” Stiles says, voice raw. “He’s skulking around in the captain’s cabin.” There are a few shuffling steps and then a warm hand is on his shoulder, Derek’s muscles relaxing as magic races through him, bright blue sparks of it rolling down his arms. “While Dad’s working through everything, we’re gonna do what we do best. Fix this fucking ship.”

“Are you sure—”

“Danny, we don’t have much of a choice right now. If we can just keep her floating long enough to clear that reef, we’ll be fine. The current will take us back towards Hudson’s Hope and we can cash in.”

“How about we just build a raft and paddle our happy asses away from this thing? Let it sink.” Stiles lets out a sharp breath through his nose, but his hold on Derek doesn’t waver. “I told y’all there was something wrong with this ship! Now Jordan’s dead! What else has to go wrong before you guys believe me?”

“I believe you, Danny.”

“Even if we do follow your plan, we’re gonna have all kinds of problems,” Scott protests. He shifts in Derek’s arms, putting just enough space between them to look up at Stiles. “It was a stretch to get the repairs done in three days when we had the _Beacon_.”

“You and Derek are the best underwater welders in the business, Scotty. If anyone can get this rust bucket up to snuff, it’s you two. I can get to work in the bridge with Raeken’s help and Danny can start on the rudder.” Stiles and Derek both turn their gazes to Danny, the other man massaging his forehead. “Danny?”

“Fine,” he rasps out. “But I need some time first.”

“We all need time to process. We’ll start the repairs in the morning when we can actually see.”

_August 10, 2016_

Erica grunts as she’s tossed to the side, something tearing in her shoulder as she slides to the ground. There’s a low growl and then a hand is wrapping around her ankle, dragging her down the hall with no care to the way busted floorplates rake over her back. “Let me go,” she demands, kicking out until the man drops her ankle with a hiss. She rolls onto her belly and pushes herself back to her feet, teeth bared in a snarl.

“You’re not going to win,” the Ferriman tells her, voice rolling over her like a clap of thunder. “You’re just the last survivor.” Her heart aches as she remembers her mate, the way Boyd was draped over the old Jaguar in the cargo hold with his chest torn open. Tears sting her eyes, but she blinks them away and forces herself to take a step back, put more space between her and the _thing_.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s my job.” He moves with a fluid grace, eyes little more than black pits buried deep in a bone white face. “You salvage ships and I salvage corrupted souls.” He grins, showing off two rows of sharp teeth stained pink with blood. “Now, why don’t you hold still and I’ll make this quick.”

“Kiss my ass, you freak!”

“That’s the same thing your Beta said before I broke his neck.” He chuckles and runs his claws over the wall, gouging the metal in a shower of sparks. She winces at the sound but doesn’t back down from the challenge. Erica’s eyes bleed red, letting a partial shift turn her vision to shades of blue and violet. “What was that runt’s name again?”

“Isaac.” She sucks in a deep breath, letting it out in a rumbling growl. “Isaac, Boyd, Brett, Hayden, and Corey. That was their names.” They’re all dead now, all her Betas, her _pack_. This bastard took them away from her.

“Their names don’t mean a thing to me.” Erica lunges forward without warning, slashing her claws through the air. He steps easily to the side, hooking his foot around her ankle and sending her sprawling to the hard floor. The fourth level isn’t nearly as broken down as the third one, but the floor buckles under her weight and sends her in a free fall. She doesn’t even have time to scream before she collides with cold concrete.

_The pool_, she realizes vaguely. There’s a muffled thud somewhere above her and then he’s leaning over the edge of the pool, grinning down at her. She can’t move as the Ferriman jumps down into the pool, shoes shining blackly in the wispy moonlight streaming in through the skylight. It dapples over his face, moving shadows like whispers of flame. She wants to set him on fire and watch him writhe.

“It’s over, Erica. Accept it.” She grinds her teeth and forces herself to move, claws digging into his throat to slice through muscle and tissue. Warm blood rains over her but she doesn’t care, it’s too satisfying to see the surprise in his eyes. The black ripples, a wave of ink, then settles as his features harden.

It’s the last thing Erica sees before a shard of glass is plunged into her temple.

_September 22, 2016_

The captain’s cabin is just as empty as it had been when John fled earlier that afternoon, the bottle of whiskey still on the desk and the tumbler lying forgotten on the rug. His fingers itch to grab the bottle and pour a glass, to guzzle it down and relish in the familiar burn as it slides down his throat. He’s been sober for four years.

He paces the room, nails digging into his palms until he feels warm blood sliding down his fingers. With a growl, he kicks out at a dresser, the oval mirror on top falling to the ground and shattering, pieces of glass scattering around John’s shoes. He can’t handle this. He can’t do this job without Parrish. Parrish has been his right hand since his days as Sheriff of Beacon county, he moved to Canada after John retired to keep the team together. Now he’s gone and John is going to have to call his family.

_Fuck it_.

John storms over to the desk, grabbing the bottle and glass before dropping down into a chair. He doesn’t sit behind the desk, it feels too disrespectful when he’s not the captain. _You’re not a captain of anything anymore, John_. He eyes the bottle, the one with the cork missing when it hadn’t been last time. _Four years_, he reminds himself even as his hands begin to shake.

He remembers hazy afternoons, the taste of cheap whiskey on his tongue and the way Stiles would curl up in a fort in the backyard until dinner. He’d been ten, too old to be playing make believe, but Claudia was dead and John couldn’t handle the responsibility of planning a funeral and raising his son.

_Four years_.

It had been early morning, the fog was rolling in and the bottle of Jack Daniels was heavy in his hand. The house was quiet as it usually was at five o’clock, the coffee pot wouldn’t start for another thirty minutes and Stiles wouldn’t shuffle downstairs for another hour after that. His mouth still tasted faintly of toothpaste and Listerine and he craved the burning taste of alcohol to wash it away.

He stood out on the front porch, goosebumps rising along his bare arms as he watched the fireflies slowly blink out of existence. _Claudia had eyes like those_, he’d thought, and his smile was out of practice when he finally managed it. _Now Stiles has her eyes and all her loving energy_.

He’d turned his back on the rolling fog and the fireflies, stopping in the kitchen long enough to throw the whiskey in the trash. When Stiles came downstairs and the pack began to gather for Sunday morning breakfast, there was coffee on John’s breath instead of whiskey.

John shoves the bottle away from him with a sound of disgust, resting his head on his arms so he doesn’t have to look at it. He can’t throw away four years of sobriety because of a terrible accident, he can’t do that to his son. Stiles had been so proud that morning, he’d hugged his father for ten minutes and there may or may not have been tears. John isn’t going to sully that.

The sound of glass sliding over wood makes him sit up straighter and the sight waiting on him has him jerking backwards so roughly that the front legs of his chair raise dangerously in the air. They slam back to the floor with a violent _ka-thump_ that matches his heartbeat as he stares across from him at a man that can’t possibly be there.

The man is tall and lithe, faint scars stretching from the corners of his mouth to his ears and blue eyes watching him from under the brim of a captain’s hat. He’s smiling and his eyes flash scarlet briefly before settling to a pale blue. He’s around John’s age, tanned with wrinkles just starting to carve themselves deeper in his face. His hand is steady as he pours two fingers and slides the glass over to John.

“I don’t drink,” John says, and wonders if he’s having a mental breakdown.

“Suit yourself, Captain.” The smooth English drawl somewhat surprises John considering the ship is Italian in make, sailing from Italy, and hosting a mostly Italian guest list. He runs a hand over his jaw, making a mental note to shave later before remembering that his electric razor is currently floating somewhere in the Bering Strait. “So, how are you handling things?”

“You’re British.” The words don’t wait for John’s permission to come bursting out, just doing a fucking backflip off his tongue and sticking the landing. “I mean, I just didn’t expect you to be…. British.” The captain isn’t offended, he gives an easy laugh and settles back in his chair. He doesn’t seem to notice the splintered wood poking through his chest or the fact that the chair itself is leaning heavily to the right.

“I hail from London, but I like these beautiful ships.” He gestures around him with one hand, and John wonders if the man is seeing the same disheveled ruin that John does. Maybe he can only see it the way it was before his death, shining walls and pristine oak. John wishes he could have that picture of beauty tucked away in his mind instead of a column of flames and the stench of burnt flesh. “Where are you from?”

“California first, then Canada.” The captain nods, fingers circling the rim of the glass. John can see through them, like gazing past a fine mist. “I’m, um, I’m John Stilinski.” He holds out a hand, unsure of the social etiquette when talking to a figment of his imagination. The captain raises his brows and his lips have an amused quirk to them.

“I’m afraid I’m not quite solid enough for a handshake, Mister Stilinski.” For emphasis, he raises his own hand from the glass and passes it straight through John’s. John’s fingers curl against his palm at the rush of cold air, lowering back to his lap. “My name is Deucalion Blackwood.”

“It’s good to meet you.” It’s really not, but what is John supposed to say to a man that’s either a ghost or a hallucination? He might as well not be rude.

“I believe I have something here you need to see.” Deucalion pulls a drawer open and passes over a leather-bound book, the captain’s log that John’s been searching for. The cover is filthy and the corners have gone soft with age, but the papers and pictures inside it are still crisp. “Study the photographs, Mister Stilinski.” He nods, setting the book on the desk and focusing on the pictures.

They’re black and white numbers, professionally done. The first is of a smaller ship that’s half sunk in the ocean, the name of it too small to make out. John knows it all the same, recognizes the design from one of Claudia’s stories. “The _Chimera?”_

“She was adrift and we intended to rescue her.” John knows the story, or thought he’d known it, a ship carrying a couple hundred passengers and some mysterious cargo. It was reported missing on the twenty-fifth after not arriving to a New York dock and found a month later at the bottom of the Strait. The passengers were missing, but there were bloodstains ingrained in the wood and the cargo missing.

“The gold was on the _Chimera_.” Deucalion nods, a slow as molasses gesture that makes John want to shake him. “You left no survivors, did you?”

“They were dead before we found the ship sinking. All apart from one, that is. A curious young man with blood on his shirt cuffs and a story about a mutiny. Keep looking.” John sets the first picture aside, the next showing seven crates filled with unmarked gold bars, a man in a jumpsuit grinning behind them. The date scratched in ink on the bottom reads May 19, two full days before the _Lupo_ disappeared. The captain gestures for John to keep looking and John sets the second picture aside. It’s the third one that makes him suck in a sharp gasp of air, a high whistling sound that rattles in his throat. The man looking back at him from the photograph is still on the ship.

John downs the whiskey in two quick gulps.


	7. Death on Swift Wings

As it turns out, sleeping on a creepy as all hell ship after one of your packmates dies is freaking impossible. Stiles knows that the groaning of metal and threat of lice aren’t the only things causing his restlessness, there’s also the threat of nightmares ready to swallow him up and spit him out. Well, nightmare, really, singular.

He’d be back on the deck of the _Lupo_ and Jordan would be standing in front of him, a mess of burned flesh and pink muscles that jump like they’re attached to an electrical source, his teeth bared in an accusing snarl. _Why didn’t you protect me_, he’d ask with something like despair. _Why didn’t you pull me out of the water too?_

It’s the same type of nightmare he’d had after his mother died when he was ten, her diminished corpse standing on the edge of the hospital roof and her hair floating on the breeze. It was thinner just like everything else about her, and she was sobbing as she fell to her knees and pleaded with Stiles to just use his Spark, to _save her goddammit_.

He’d wake scratching at his throat, desperate to suck in air and make the burning in his chest ease. If he’d been fully human, there would be scars to show from the panic attacks. There’d be evidence that the Sherriff’s kid is odd, someone to be whispered about at church socials, someone to be avoided because what if Dementia is contagious? It made him want to lash out at those close-minded _idiots_ in Beacon Hills, but there were no scars left behind and he kept all his rage locked away.

Now, so many years later, he can feel the same terror making his fingers tingle, the same crushing wave of _ohgodnopleasehelp,_ of his throat tightening and his lungs giving an almighty quiver behind his ribs. His teeth are clenched so tightly that he’s afraid they’ll shatter under the pressure, a teacup beneath a bull’s hoof.

He knows what he needs to do, _knows_ how to make this stop, but the thoughts fly right out of his head and his nails dig into his throat like if he can tear it open then he can get some air. If he can just breathe, all of this will be okay again. But he _can’t_. It hurts so bad and his thoughts are stuck in a loop of what-if’s that will never amount to anything. One hand comes up to his hair, yanking on the strands and digging blunt nails into his scalp and he still can’t breathe, can’t process the _stop, too much, bad_ signals his brain is sending out.

And, just as suddenly as the attack washed over him, it stops. He’s left on the bed, a discarded ragdoll with loose limbs and blood under his nails. His breaths are wet and shuddering, but anything is better than the sensation of having no breaths at all, of suffocating.

“Are you alright?” He can’t bring himself to open his eyes yet, not when the voice can’t possibly be real. What if he really does have Dementia? What if he’s losing the one asset that he has going form him, his brain? The thought makes him break out in tremors, like if he can vibrate right out of his skin then this will all screech to a halt and he can focus. “Stiles?”

“You’re not real,” he croaks, the words carried on a sob. “Please, just go away. You’re not real.”

“Sometimes I think you’re right.” There’s a creak of old wood and a dip in the mattress near Stiles’ hip. “Sometimes I think everything that’s happened has just been a nightmare, that I’ll wake up in my own bed and my mother will be there to comfort me.” Stiles’ eyes open in a flutter of dark lashes, gaze settling on the little girl from his dream. She’s just as vivid as before, tears glittering on her cheeks like diamonds. “I really want to see my family again. I miss them.”

“I know how you feel.” She sniffles, but she doesn’t wipe the tears away as she meets his stare. She’s just so _little_, maybe eight at the most and already dead. “My mom died when I was ten. My dad and I kind of fell apart after that.” John had spent the first week drunk as a skunk and Stiles had spent it in the rundown fort outside, nothing more than an old sheet and a few old throw pillows he and Scott had stolen form Mister McCall’s camper.

“Do you ever talk to her? Pretend she can actually hear you?”

“Yeah.” His throat is tight again, but this time it’s from sadness and not anxiety. “I tell her about how my day went, about what my pack has been up to and how my magic is coming along.” The little girl hums, feet swinging back and forth and never scraping the ground. They couldn’t touch the ground even if she were alive because she’s too short. “What’s your name?”

“Malia Tate.” The name rings a bell and it takes him a moment to figure out how he knows it. _Tates and Stilinskis and Hales have always been connected through the Nemeton_, she’d said just last night. The Tate family is an old one, mostly human with a few Sparks and Shifters thrown in to make it interesting.

On the first day of summer, Claudia would pack up a picnic basket and load Stiles into Roscoe, driving him to the Preserve and leading him deep into the woods until they reached a tree stump the size of a small cottage. Henry Tate and Talia Hale would meet them there with their own kids and they’d eat while the adults spun tales of ley lines and magic.

Stiles remembers that last time he’d gone with his mother. The air had been crisp, still carrying the sting of winter but not covering the scent of wildflowers starting to grow along the path. They had Claudia’s famous sweet tea in the cooler and there were aster flowers braided into her dark hair. Her eyes glowed bright green when she came into the copse of trees, the wind’s bite dying away and the grass coming to life beneath the soles of her shoes.

They were the first ones there this time around, settling on the stump with the soft cotton of Claudia’s dress fanned out around her. The tea was sweet on Stiles’ tongue and his mother had smelled of happiness—honeysuckle and roses. She’d explained what a Spark was, that it resides just behind his heart, a tiny flame of power that connects him to the Nemeton beneath them.

That had been the first day his Spark actually worked, his mom helping a dead flower bloom as they cradled it gently in their hands. Claudia had been so proud that she almost knocked the entire pitcher of sweet tea off the Nemeton in her haste to give Stiles a hug. That had been the last day his mother was able to use her magic. The next day was spent in a hospital that stunk of disinfectant and disease getting the worst news of their lives.

“Stiles?” He snaps back to the present like a rubber band that’s been stretched too thin, eyes clearing and settling back on Malia. She’s moved closer at some point, brown eyes filled with an intense desire to know what had been playing out behind Stiles’ eyelids.

“I’m here, kid.” She reaches out a hand, pausing just shy of actually touching his eyebrow. This close he can see a swirling fog inside of her, a vapor that stirs whenever he breathes. “You can’t actually touch me, can you?”

“No.” Her eyes close, lashes curling against a plump cheek that will never lose its baby fat. She’ll never get to see what she looks like as an adult, never get her first kiss or learn how warm a full shift is when she’s covered in fur and running on a full moon. Malia Tate will never grow up. “I want to show you something.”

“Is it gonna hurt?” She gives him a shy smile as she slides to her feet, one of her teeth missing.

“Only your feelings.”

“All the more reason to stay in this room.” Her smile turns sly, vaguely reminiscent of Henry’s right before he’d pull some sort of prank on Talia. Stiles has an instinctive distrust of that smile.

“All by yourself? In the night, in the dark? Alone?”

“Jesus, the deviousness is genetic.” She grins this time, a bright thing that makes Stiles’ heart break apart in his chest. “Where are we headed?”

“My room,” she answers succinctly. “It’s on B deck.”

Danny’s not sure how he ends up back in the woman’s cabin, the flowery scent of perfume making his nose twitch. He remembers being in the kitchen with Derek and Scott, watching them dare each other to eat canned goods, and then nothing except a cooing voice on his walkie that the ‘wolves couldn’t hear.

“This is stupid,” he mutters, shuffling over to the bed. He flops down onto the feather-down mattress, sinking a good six inches into it. The satin comforter boasts no snagged fabric or dust, no weird smells aside from the perfume. Always the perfume. This room should be disgusting by now, half collapsed and moldering away in the darkness. The fucking windows are even clean, shining in the moonlight.

He just wants to _sleep_, to let go of the anguish buried in his chest and fall into a comforting blackness. He can’t though, not when he has a head wound to worry about. Instead he stares up at the canopy of white lace, looking more like an intricate spiderweb than anything. He wonders if the cabin’s former occupant used to do this, if she stared up at the canopy as the waves gently rocked her to sleep.

“Is it comfortable?” He’s not surprised when he hears a woman talking, lifting his head just enough to see a blonde woman in a skintight red dress. It looks good on her, accentuating her bust and hips like a dress from an old Hollywood movie. Her arms are covered in matching silk gloves that stop at her elbows and her hair is done up in an elegant style with diamonds threaded throughout the curls.

“Are you real?”

“As real as anything, darlin’.” She sways in time with the ship, flickering in and out of sight. Danny wants to run his knuckles along her cheek, see if it’s as soft as it appears. Then he thinks of Jackson, of his fiancé’s charming smile and spitfire attitude and the urge to reach out fades.

“I’m Danny,” he says for lack of anything else. The woman smiles and it’s a reptilian thing, like snakes dozing in the high grass just waiting for someone to step on them. Her teeth are dull and human, but the way she moves is all predator as she saunters over to the bed. Danny inches back on his elbows until his shoulders press against the wall.

“I’m Kate.” The perfume is more pronounced now, nearly overpowering as his eyes start to water. “Do you think I’m beautiful, Danny?” She reaches out with a hand and Danny can see the callouses along her fingers and the edges of her palms, then he wonders when her gloves vanished. Her fingers hesitate next to his cheek, the scar decorating the center of her palm in plain view. It’s pale and raised, an old scar in the shape of a fishhook with the top twisting sharply to form an arrow that points at the vulnerable flesh of her wrist.

“How’d you get that?” He tries to take her wrist in hand to see the scar better, but his hand passes straight through her with a whisper of air. The skin of her wrist becomes pale vapor, pixilating and coming together again to form a perfect image, a mirage. It really hits him then, watching as her smile turns feral, that this is _real_. He’s talking to a _ghost_. Where the fuck is Ed Zeddmore when you need him?

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. When you’re dead like me, you can touch all you want.” Her laugh is like sandpaper on wood, raspy and harsh and ringing in his ears as he struggles to get off the bed without touching her again. She’s still laughing as he stumbles in the dark, whacking his shoulder on the doorframe and tripping over the damned strip of metal again and hurtling forward against the weakened elevator doors. They don’t support his weight this time around, giving out with an agonized squeal of metal that sends him tumbling down the shaft towards the twisted nest of cables.

The blackness he ends up stuck in holds no comfort and his right palm stings as a black-eyed creature brands him with the simple motion of flesh sliding against flesh.

Malia’s room is in a state of disrepair like all the others onboard, her skeleton lying in a broken pile inside her closet, frayed rope still around her neck. The sight of it makes Stiles want to vomit and he has to slide the doors closed before his lackluster breakfast makes a reappearance. She’s sitting on the couch when he turns, smiling sadly up at him.

“How much do you know about the Ferriman?” The question catches him off guard and he has to take a minute to sort through his mental rolodex of all the supernatural species he’s studied so far. He remembers Deaton saying something about a mystical race of creatures born of sin and sent out to collect souls that have been corrupted. There’s only been one sighting in the past hundred years.

“They’re rare,” Stiles says eventually. “Like, so rare that my teacher thinks they’re just old fairy tales.” Which is saying something since Deaton’s got an entire file cabinet full of information on varying species that Stiles had thought were myths for most of his life. Turns out that the Loch Ness Monster is real, and she gives out sage life advice when she’s in a good mood.

“They’re real, Stiles. One’s on this ship right now.” She lets out a long breath, gazing anxiously around the room before continuing. “Ferriman is a title that’s passed down every three hundred years, starting with Charon. The one that’s on this ship is fairly new, he still needs to impress his bosses.”

“Satan? He needs to impress Satan?”

“Uh-huh.”

“God, my life is so fucked up.”

“You shouldn’t swear. My mother would hit you over the head with a newspaper if she could hear you.” He snorts, dropping down on the coffee table. It shifts to the left before settling, the wood letting out a deep groan of protest until Stiles’ magic seeps into the cherry wood, strengthening it and setting it back into its proper position.

“So, tell me about the Ferriman.”

“We thought he was a normal person at first, a new staff member that no one noticed until after we boarded the _Chimera_ and stole the gold. The people onboard were already dead, you see. Deuc was wary, he didn’t want to bring all that gold on the _Demone Lupo_, but the crew and my shipmates were close to a mutiny.”

“The _Chimera?_ As in the ship that never made it to New York and was found just thirty miles from here?” She nods and Stiles lets out a slow breath, remembering the theory Claudia had had about that ship in particular. His mom had always thought these two ships were connected somehow and now Stiles can confirm it.

“They had a party that night to celebrate what they’d done. I didn’t know what was going on at first, not until I was already dead and the Ferriman was going around branding everyone. He grasped their right hands in his and there would be a scar there when he pulled away again.” She glances down at her own hand, cradled in her lap and unmarked. “I’m innocent, but I’m still trapped here.”

“Why, though? Why are you trapped here when you’ve done nothing wrong?”

“Because he thinks he can still mark me somehow.” Malia crosses her arms and slouches, pouting. “As the nanny from Italy could attest, I’m ninety percent spiteful arrogance and ten percent anger. I’ll stay innocent even if it kills me.” She pauses a second and laughs when she realizes what she’s just said. “Well, you get the idea.”

“Oh yeah, trust me. My science teacher back in California was pretty sure I was the spawn of Satan.”

She smiles and Stiles can’t help but smile back.

John’s on C deck with the picture tucked away in his jacket pocket, running and trying his best not to look over his shoulder as he goes. Isn’t that how all those stupid teens in slasher flicks die? Looking over their shoulder while running only to trip and fall? John isn’t a stupid teenager and he’s not looking back. He _can’t_.

“Olly olly oxen free!” He winces at the voice, doubling his efforts to get away. He should have taken a left back at that last turn, should have radioed Stiles before he left the captain’s cabin; would’a, could’a, should’a. Makes no difference now that there’s a dead man chasing him. “Come on, Sheriff! Where are you hiding?” His breaths are too loud, echoing off tile walls as he slides into a room with a pool. John doesn’t stop to notice the bullet casings like Stiles had, doesn’t care that there’s a blonde woman sitting down there with a bloody temple, surrounded by an equally deceased pack.

“Not real,” John says under his breath. His boot hits a life ring, sending him sprawling over the dirty floor. He can feel a cut open up along his cheek but can manage nothing more than a small whine.

“Found ya!” He rolls onto his back with a weary sort of resignation, staring up at the walking corpse that’s been hunting him since he left Deucalion’s company. Parrish towers over him like a giant, skin blackened and cracking to reveal streams of fiery orange underneath, like the surface of a volcano ready to erupt. “You gotta get better at this whole hiding thing.”

“You’re de—” His voice cracks, words sticking to the roof of his mouth like flies to flypaper. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I have to. You think I want to be stuck on your little ship of dreams, Sheriff? I got _marked_.” He jerks his arm out, showing a hook-shaped brand seared into the flesh of his palm. “That fucking gold did this to me!” His eyes glow like embers, bright and flickering as his canines sharpen. A growl rumbles through his chest, teeth snapping. “I can’t control myself, so I suggest you start running again.”

“And run fast,” calls the dead girl in the pool. “The Ferriman is kinda like Imhotep, death on swift wings.” John scrambles back to his aching feet and takes off at a slow run, unable to muster much more than that. His lungs are already burning and there’s a dull pang ricocheting up his left arm to his jaw.

“Run, run as fast as you can,” a man’s voice echoes, warped and growling. “Run away, little gingerbread man!” A laugh follows him through the hallways, distorted and piercing and terrifying, a siren during a heavy storm. His pulse is thundering in his ears, beating away and growing fainter as a ringing starts up. He’s not going to make it.

He stumbles down the stairs more than running, leaning heavily against the railing until he’s on B deck again. “Stiles,” he shouts, desperate. “Stiles!” He can hear the faint wheeze between breaths, can hear the strain in his vocal chords like guitar strings pulled too tight. “Stiles, where are you?”

“I’m right here, Sheriff,” Parrish says, stepping in front of him. “I can’t let you get away. Ferriman doesn’t want the others knowing his secret quite yet.”

“I don’t care what he wants!”

“What he wants is the only thing that matters right now. Don’t you get it? I can’t disobey! His word is law, even more so than an Alpha’s command. I have no choice.” Parrish lunges forward with his claws glinting in the fading moonlight, slashing through the air just inches from John’s face. John jerks backwards, stumbling over a lampshade and twisting to the side as he falls.

“Stop this!”

“Fight me, Sheriff! Get off your ass and _fight me!”_ John reaches out blindly, fingers wrapping around the cold metal of a gold-gilded lamp, swinging it up and cracking it against Parrish’s head. “Is that the best you can do?” John bares his teeth in a snarl, struggling back to his feet to strike again.

Parrish catches the lamp this time, the bulb shattering in his grip as he yanks the lamp out of John’s grasp. Slivers of glass are embedded in his palm, but there’s no blood dripping to the floor, no expression of pain on Parrish’s face. John ducks when Parrish strikes again, landing a solid punch against the Hell Hound’s midsection.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Parrish.”

“A little late for that, don’t you think? _I’m dead!”_ John brings his foot around, hooking it behind Parrish’s and jerking it back. Parrish lands with a soft thud, unable to get up when John plants a boot against his chest.

“Fight him, Parrish. Do you understand me?” He uses the tone that got the Beacon Hills Police Force to listen to him without question, hard as marble. “You fight him and get control over yourself!” Parrish wraps his hand around John’s ankle and pulls, John toppling backwards with a punched-out grunt of pain.

The ache in his jaw spreads lower, burning through muscle and tissue towards his ribs.

“This is it,” Parrish says, standing over him. “No bright lights or pearly gates. Just….” He trails off, gesturing around them at the decaying furniture of the dining room and the shattered crystal of the chandeliers. “Just the _Lupo_.” The pain burns brighter now, John clasping one hand over his chest and hunching over with a whine. “Don’t worry, Sheriff. We won’t be alone.”

“That’s right,” another voice says. John gazes up at the newcomer through tears, Danny wavering and then becoming solid as he comes to stand next to Parrish. “We’ll all be together.” Danny’s shirt is ragged and bloody, at least a dozen holes letting John see into the man’s chest cavity where his heart is no longer pumping. “It’s your turn, Sheriff.”

The two dead men lift John with surprising ease considering he no longer has the strength to move, dragging him over to the aquarium and up a short flight of stairs that leads to the top. This is where the old crew would come to clean the tank, he knows. They’d open the top just like Danny is doing now and they’d run specialized tools along the glass to keep the algae at bay.

“Tag,” Parrish says,” you’re it.” John’s dropped into the tank with little flourish, his ankle breaking and his head cracking off the thick glass, the picture fluttering out of his pocket and against the window. It doesn’t matter, John’s dead before he can register the pain.

The crew find John an hour after his death while they’re looking for Danny, they don’t notice that the Sheriff’s ghost is standing just three feet away or how Raeken is standing so that his leg blocks them from seeing the photograph of the Ferriman. John watches as they work together to pull his corpse out of the aquarium, watches his son cradle his body and sob like his world has just crumbled away into ash. John seethes that he can’t go comfort him, can’t move from his position between Danny and Parrish.

On his right hand, the brand glows a bright red and burns away another part of his free will.


	8. Only Devils Now

Stiles started his formal training when he was eighteen years old, showing up in Deaton’s workshop with ten bucks to offer and a give ‘em hell attitude. There was a token protest of being retired on Deaton’s part and a bribe of homemade toffee on Stiles’. No one can resist Claudia’s recipe, not even cryptic Druids who tend to disappear every other week.

They go slow at first, mostly reading old tomes and taking pop quizzes, going out into the woods where the humans don’t wander. There’s no Nemeton in Canada, no bone deep connection to the land that makes his Spark hum. By the time Stiles is twenty, he can control small waves, two years after that and he can make flowers bloom in his palm all by himself.

“You have an affinity for water,” Deaton says one afternoon. “You should make that your focus.”

“I don’t even like swimming.”

“And yet you salvage ships for a living.” Stiles snorts and shakes his head, picking at the salad Melissa had sent with him that morning. He’s pretty sure this is karma after the years of making sure his dad eats right. Sunlight streams into the kitchen past curtains that have seen better days, warm against his cheek.

“I don’t always have to swim when we salvage, though. Only when I lose a bet with Scotty.”

“One day this little ability will come in handy, just wait and see.”

Stiles is amazing when it comes to compartmentalizing even when the rest of the pack isn’t, barking out orders like a Gunnery Sergeant to a bunch of wet behind the ears Privates. R. Lee Ermey would have been proud. Derek and Scott are in the water before they’ve even fully processed everything, Stiles waiting up on the catwalk as they navigate the murky depths of the hull.

“There’s a lot of shit down here,” Scott says through the comms. “Part of the catwalk is even resting on the bottom.”

_“Just find the bulkhead, Scotty,”_ Stiles says.

“I’m just saying that we’ll need more light down here. I don’t wanna hit something and have it puncture the oxygen tank.” _We don’t need another uncontrolled explosion_ is left unsaid, but it hangs in the air like smog. Derek holds up a section of pipe for Scott to swim under, then follows over to the rusted hatch.

_“Wheel’s busted,”_ Derek says. _“I’m coming back for some C4.”_

_“Roger that,”_ Stiles answers. _“Got it prepped.”_ Scott waits while Derek fades away, the water and darkness too much for his normal eyes to make out. They glow bright yellow, and he can barely make Derek out through the green water and debris. There’s the muffled sound of water shifting as Derek lifts himself out, and then a dull splash as he comes back in. _“He’s headed your way, Scotty.”_

_“Anyone up for a rousing game of Marco Polo?”_

_“Not the time, Der.” _The Werewolves work in tandem to get the explosives set up, running the charges back to the detonator in Stiles’ hand. _“Arming the C4. Are we clear?”_

_“Clear.”_

“Clear,” Scott echoes.

_“Contact,”_ Stiles says. The door implodes in a rush of bubbles and the sound of crunching metal, falling to the side to allow the ‘wolves to swim past it. _“How’s it looking?”_

“Big, but nothing we can’t handle.”

_“I’m heading to the rudder.” _

Scott pulls the waterproof bag around on his shoulder, bringing out the tools of their trade and setting to work. Welding is therapeutic, he has to stay focused on the task at hand and not on the fact that half their crew is either dead or missing. He and Derek weld panels into place over the tear, hammering the jagged edges in place.

It takes four hours to get everything waterproofed well-enough to make it back home. Once it’s done, Derek sets up the pumps and tosses a hose up to Scott. Scott nods once he has it, dragging his end to the closest room and dangling it out a broken window. “Ready, Der,” he says.

_“Rudder’s fixed,”_ Stiles adds over the walkie.

_“Starting the pumps,”_ Derek says. The thick hose vibrates in Scott’s hands and then water is pouring out of it back into the sea. He lodges it between broken glass and the frame, ensuring the hose won’t go anywhere while Scott’s out of the room. _“I give her twelve hours before she’s bone-dry.”_

_“I’m going to the helm to set the course.”_

_“Roger that.”_ Scott rejoins Derek in the engine room, peeling the wetsuit the rest of the way off and pulling on his street clothes. He never used to think jeans could be so comfortable, but this line of work has changed his mind. Jeans are like Heaven. “As long as the pumps hold out, we should be good.”

“That’s the first good news we’ve had lately,” Scott says. Derek’s lips press into a thin line and he glances over his shoulders, ears straining. “What?”

“Where’s Raeken?” Scott looks around as well, trying to find any sounds that aren’t the running pumps or the family of mice holed up down the hall. Stiles had ordered that Raeken stick close, but none of them noticed when he slipped away. It’s bad enough that Danny’s missing, but they can’t handle another loss.

“I thought he was out in the hall.”

“He was when we started.” Scott heaves out a breath, running pruned fingers through his hair. If Raeken breaks his neck, then Scott will be the first to volunteer to throw his body overboard. It’s his fault they’ve lost so much in just twenty-four hours. “Maybe we should go look for him.”

“Screw that!” Derek’s eyes widen at Scott’s outburst and the Beta can almost hear the blood rushing to his cheeks as he blushes. “I just mean that he’s responsible for enough of our grief. If you get hurt looking for that asshole, then Stiles will fall apart.” Derek’s eyes bleed red at the thought of his mate in distress, a low growl rumbling in his chest. Scott can smell Derek’s misery, like a cloud of foul-smelling cologne.

“Fine, Raeken’s on his own.”

“Well, I’ve got bad news and good news,” Stiles announces an hour later, skipping into the room. “Which do you want first?” Derek and Scott share a look and then shrug, glancing back to Stiles.

“Bad news.”

“The current is hella fast, so we’re closer to the reef than Dad anticipated.” There’s a burst of chemicals in the air, Stiles’ anxiety spiking sharply at the mention of the Sheriff. “Good news is that I can control this rust bucket using the rudder and I should be able to get us past the reef.”

“Better than nothing.”

“One of you go check the bridge in a few.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna go find Danny. He’s gotta be around here somewhere and I’m not leaving this boat without him.” There’s a grim determination that sharpens his features, a blind trust that Danny’s still alive. “I’ve got my walkie. Call me if something happens.”

“You got it, Stiles,” Scott says, giving him a lazy salute. He tries not to eavesdrop when Derek takes Stiles aside, but he can still make out the declarations of love and the chaste kiss Derek presses against Stiles’ mating bite.

The night Stiles and Derek were joined was a special one, their close family and pack gathered around them deep in the woods. They’d flown back to California for the ceremony, dragging Deaton with them with promises of spaghetti and a puppy. The Shifters dress simply, Derek settling on a pair of suit pants and a white button-down that hangs loose on his shoulders while Stiles wears jeans and forgoes a shirt.

The copse of trees hasn’t changed since Stiles was a teenager, the Nemeton still set in the middle of it with its gnarled roots spreading out like reaching arms. Deaton stands on one side of it, hands clasped in front of him and that strange not-smile present as the couple walks between the two rows of pack. Peter winks at them, Cora wolf whistles, and Lydia elbows the both of them.

They come to a stop opposite Deaton, the tree stump between them sending out pulses of magic along the ley lines. Stiles’ Spark hums in time with it and his eyes flash with supernatural color at the bouquet of aster flowers lying on top of the Nemeton, his mother’s favorites. She’d had them braided in her hair at her wedding and Stiles knows his father did this in her memory.

Deaton reads from an old book, but Stiles isn’t paying any attention to the words as he turns to face Derek. They’re not getting married, it’s seems too old fashioned, but this is more intimate. Stiles is getting a mating bite. He doesn’t point out to his new age boyfriend that it’s basically like getting Werewolf married.

The moonlight falls through the canopy of trees, dappling the pack and the vibrant grass in silver light. It highlights Derek’s sharp cheekbones and transforms his smile into artwork worthy of the Louvre, adorable bunny teeth and all. There are tears in his eyes, making the bright green shine like glass, his hold on Stiles’ hands tightening. Stiles wants this moment to stretch out for an eternity, wants to bask in the stunning beauty of his mate.

“Derek, you may bestow the bite on Stiles.” Derek pulls in a deep, steadying breath before letting his fangs drop. He brings Stiles’ right wrist up to his mouth, meeting Stiles’ gaze as he sinks his teeth into the muscle, the coppery scent of blood filling the air. The pain is intense at first, but then Stiles’ magic kicks into high gear and rushes to the wound, healing it even as Derek pulls back.

Lines of green fill the punctures, the bite scarring over in a matter of seconds.

“Congratulations,” Deaton says, and he’s actually smiling this time. “Claudia would be proud of you, Stiles.”

Stiles heads up to A deck as he searches, moving his flashlight back and forth to peer into rooms. “Danny,” he calls. “Are you down here? Come on, dude, we need help!” The light passes over a pair of glowing eyes and Stiles backtracks, spotting Malia standing near the end of one hallway. “Malia?”

“He’s here,” she says. Stiles walks on numb feet, stopping a few feet in front of her. There’s a room on his left with a cracked frame and the artificial scent of perfume, to the right is an elevator shaft that Malia is looking down into. Stiles doesn’t want to turn and see what’s waiting for him, he can already feel the snapped thread of his pack bond with Danny. How is he supposed to tell Jackson? They were supposed to go to Paris after this, they were supposed to get _married_.

“Please….” His voice comes out as a rasp, like he’s spent the past hour gargling gravel. _It’s not fair_. “Please, don’t let him be dead, too.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles.” Stiles turns and has to choke back a sob, finding Danny lying on the wreckage of an elevator, three steel cables impaling his chest. He looks surprised, like he can’t believe it’s taken someone this long to find him. “It was Kate.” Malia’s by his side in an instant, hand hovering over his arm like she wants to reach out and comfort him. “She loves killing people, the Ferriman just gives her an excuse to do it without consequences.”

“Show me who the Ferriman is.” It comes out through gritted teeth, gaze locked on his dead packmate. “Show me what he looks like right now.” Malia’s hand is cold as it sinks into Stiles’ chest, a vise around his heart as the Spark trembles violently. He’s about to shout when the world around him melts away, replaced by a shinier counterpart of stunning white wallpaper and dried floors. It’s like his dream.

Malia pulls him along by his hand, leading him through the different levels and showing him the slaughter taking place. It happens in quick flashes; rat poison in the soup, a spray of bullets in the pool as bodies float in scarlet-tinged water, wire pulling taut across a dancefloor, Malia with a noose around her throat.

Time seems to slow once the waiters reach the cargo hold, the door bursting open on its own and letting them inside to seven heavy crates. The men are cheering, Stiles can hear the muffled sound from fifty years ago ringing in his ears just as surely as he can hear the spray of gunfire that follows.

The man that shoots is wearing a white jacket, deck staff with no sense of self-preservation as he tosses his gun into the bullet-riddled Jaguar before turning to face the woman that’s just walked in. She’s gorgeous, all curves and a confidence as she brings a pistol out from behind her back. The man freezes, sending her a confused frown seconds before the trigger is squeezed and a bullet destroys most of the upper portion of his face.

“Here he comes,” Malia whispers, like she’s afraid of being overheard. “This is where Kate dies.” The woman turns to face the door and, just like the man had earlier, tosses her gun aside with a careless ease. The Ferriman is tall and imposing in his suit, brown hair slicked back and smile sharp.

“I thought you’d never show up,” Kate says, resting her hands on his shoulders when he’s close enough. The Ferriman doesn’t say anything, bending his head so that his lips are over hers in a near crushing kiss, the type that leaves swollen lips in its wake. It’s dominant, something born out of a seething hatred. Kate gasps as he pulls away, reaching for him. “What—”

Overhead, a hook breaks loose and swings down, lodging itself in Kate’s jaw and yanking her off her feet. There shouldn’t be enough force behind it to do that, to keep her swaying in the air until her feet stop twitching, but it does and blood rains down over spent bullet casings. Ferriman yanks one of her gloves off, cupping her hand as the smell of burning flesh makes Stiles wince, a binding spell joining Kate’s soul to the ship. Then he turns and his black eyes flicker back to green, the human guise falling back into place. Hannibal stepping into his person suit.

_Unmask, unmask_, Stiles thinks again, and can’t quite bite back the hysterical laugh crawling up his throat.

The scene continues, fast-forwarding through the decay until a group of young Shifters touch down on rotted deck plates. This crew seem to have come upon the _Lupo_ completely by accident, Americans that stake their claim on the rusted heap of garbage as soon as they find the treasure in the cargo hold.

The Alpha is bold and arrogant, but that wanes when her crew is picked off one by one; the blond-haired man is strangled with his own scarf until his neck snaps, the pretty man with a lazy smile who’s skull is crushed by an unforgiving boot, the two Chimeras who are drowned in the aquarium, and the Alpha with the shard of glass driven into her temple.

The scene changes again, pixels realigning themselves for a new story, flashing past the deaths of Stiles’ crew until it stops with Scott pulling on the neoprene diving suit. Stiles wants to stop what’s about to happen, wants to scream until his lungs give out, but Scotty can’t hear him, and Derek’s gone to check on the helm.

The pump has stopped working and Scott has to go see what’s caused that, swimming past old scaffolding and machinery. One of the gears comes to life with a rusty squeal, catching on the edge of Scott’s flipper and dragging him backwards in agonizingly slow increments. He’s going to feel all of it and Stiles can’t even help him.

Stiles is dropped back into his body when it’s over, seeing blood misting in water every time he closes his eyes. He’ll see that image for the rest of his life, however long that turns out to be. A cloud of blood and a mangled diving mask, bits of flesh and hair still caught in it. He wants to puke but there’s nothing in his belly to come up.

“You know why he brought you here, don’t you,” Malia asks. “Why he let you all live for so long when he killed the others straight away?”

“Because we were useful,” Stiles rasps. He’s on his knees, metal digging into them painfully, but he doesn’t remember when that happened. “He killed us when we weren’t.” He swallows thickly, falling backwards against the wall when his balance gives out. “But why kill Scotty instead of me? Scott and Derek can keep this sucker afloat for a while, but I can’t.”

“He only needs one underwater welder. You and Derek are joined, you’re _mates_, which means you’ll do anything to keep each other alive.”

“Exactly. Scott is the logical choice to keep alive.”

“Derek is alive because of his skills. You are alive because you make Derek stronger and you’re a natural leader. Scott’s dead because his anchor is his pack, he can’t function properly without them. Once we clear that reef you and Derek will be dead, too.” Stiles looks up with all the anger he can muster, eyes glowing in the darkness.

“Then I guess I need to kill Raeken first.”

Derek is at the bridge when Stiles finds him half an hour later, totally at ease and unaware of the mess waiting down in the engine room. Stiles will have to go down there soon if he really wants to make Raeken hurt. “What’s up,” Derek asks. “You smell awful.”

“Scotty’s dead.”

“What?” Derek’s hands grip the wheel so tightly that the metal creaks in protest. His eyes flare a bright crimson and Stiles is surprised when he doesn’t sprout fur, claws digging into the wheel and leaving divots behind.

“It’s Raeken, he’s some kind of demon or whatever.” Stiles moves closer so he can speak in a whisper, not sure if Raeken has some sort of super hearing or not. “You and I are gonna get off this ship, but we have to destroy it first. Destroy the ship and we might destroy Raeken.”

“Do it,” Derek snarls.

“I need your help though. You gotta keep that little bastard up here somehow. Don’t let him into the hull.”

“I’ll rip his throat out.”

“That won’t do jack shit.” Stiles thinks back to the scene Malia had shown him, the Alpha that had torn her claws through Raeken’s throat. The skin had healed remarkably fast and he’d still killed her. “Just keep him up here. Tell him you need him to keep an eye on the reef in case we drift too close.”

“And if he doesn’t buy that?”

“Then what you do is get a lead pipe, wrap it in barbed wire, and you beat him with it until he’s in so much pain his heart gives out. When he comes back to life, you do it again. Okay? Just think of it as therapy for all those years you’ve wanted to beat the holy hell out of someone. If it helps, picture him as our old science teacher.”

“I don’t think I need to picture Mister Harris’ face just to get angry right now, Stiles.”

“Yeah, well, it wouldn’t hurt.”

“What wouldn’t hurt,” Raeken asks, coming into the room. He’s got his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, giving them a dopey smile.

“Thinking about people we hate during batting practice. Derek has trouble making contact sometimes, so I told him to picture a douchebag’s face.” Raeken nods, buying into the lie and letting Stiles know he can’t hear heartbeats. Not that he would have noticed anything even if he could because, technically, Stiles isn’t lying. “I’m gonna go check on Scotty, see how things are looking.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Actually I need your help up here,” Derek says. “Take those binoculars over there and watch for any debris.”

“But—”

“It’s important, Raeken. If a rock or part of the _Beacon_ knocks one of the welding panels loose, then we’re gonna sink faster than the _Titanic_. You can relax when Stiles comes back.” The frustrated anger that colors Raeken’s cheeks is a small victory. The more frustrated a person gets, the more likely they are to screw up. Stiles is gonna take this little asshole down faster than Lydia can ruin someone’s self-esteem.

“I’ll be back in a few,” Stiles calls over his shoulder.

Placing and wiring C4 probably shouldn’t be second nature to Stiles, but it is and it’s coming in handy as he rigs the hull to blow. He places the charges along the weak panels on the portside and higher along the walls, ensuring that the ship will sink but Derek should be protected from the main force of the blast. He’s prepping the detonator when Derek comes down the stairs, blood splattered across his shirt and caught in his beard. He looks feral like this, fingers tipped with claws.

“I told you to stay at the helm.”

“Theo attacked me.” Derek’s voice is rough, and his eyes flicker briefly, green to black to red. He doesn’t even seem to realize it. Stiles isn’t stupid, but he’s good at playing it and he straightens up with the detonator in hand. “I had to kill him.”

“How?”

“Bit him.” Derek shudders as though the confession revulsed him, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat. The longer he stares the more differences that Stiles can find; cheekbones too pronounced, bunny teeth too small, eyes not the perfect shade of summer grass. Stiles has every bit of Derek memorized and this is a cheap imposter.

“I thought you hated biting people.”

“Didn’t have a choice.” The voice is almost spot-on, but there’s an underlying hardness that Derek can’t recreate even as an Alpha. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I guess.” Stiles shrugs, holding the detonator slightly away and behind him, out of Derek’s sight. “I’d be better if the crew were still alive.” Derek nods and turns his back, hands going to his hips. _Too narrow_. “I’d be even better if you were actually a good actor.” Derek’s shoulders tense, muscles jumping under the stained Henley and then settling. When he turns again, the disguise melts away to reveal Raeken’s cold smirk.

“How’d you know?”

“He’s my mate, Raeken. I know everything about him. He’s also never referred to you by your first name, none of us have.”

“It’s always the little things that trip me up. Stupid human details.”

“Except none of us are human, are we?”

“No, I guess not.” Stiles takes a cautious step back, well aware that the catwalk grows more brittle the farther back he goes. “Don’t you wanna know what I did to your mate? How I carved him open like a jack-o-lantern?” There’s a twinge of phantom pain in Stiles’ chest, but nothing too severe. He’s lying. “Give me the detonator, Stiles.”

“Bite me, Raeken.”

“Biting isn’t really my thing. I prefer these.” He holds up his hand, the nails lengthening into black talons with purple streaks running through them. “They tend to get the job done.”

“Oh yeah? Think you can gut me before I squeeze the trigger?” He’s already got the switches thrown, the controlled buzz of electricity loud in his ears. Raeken’s smirk transforms into a grin, pulling the skin around his mouth tight over the bones. It’s too skeletal to be anything except menacing. “How’s it gonna look to your boss when I kick your ass?”

“You’re not going to.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you want the gold too badly. You all want the gold because you live in a corrupt system that values money above all else. It’s almost cute.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the gold. You took my family!” The smile dims, eyes filling with ink as he rakes his gaze up and down over Stiles. Whatever he sees wipes the smile off entirely. “Packs are social creatures, we’re loyal. I guess you didn’t figure that into your scheme.”

“The last pack was just as easy to kill.”

“You mean Erica’s pack?” Raeken startles at the name, eyes flicking briefly to the cloudy water and then back to Stiles. “Malia showed me what you did to them. You know what the difference between me and her is though?” He shakes his head, fingers twitching at his sides. “I’m basically Harry Potter, dude. I’m paranoid on top of that so my contingency plans have contingency plans.”

“There isn’t something I can give in exchange for this ship?”

“My pack.”

“Once a person is marked, they belong to me. That’s the rules.”

“Then I guess I’m blowing this thing to Kingdom Come.” His fingers are tight around the trigger and he’s ready to squeeze when a pipe comes flying off the wall, knocking Stiles into the water and the detonator out of his hand. Raeken’s on top of him before he can do anything, fisting a hand in Stiles’ tee and yanking him up long enough to slam him against a wall of machinery.

“All you had to do was fix the ship and die! Was that so hard?” He’s brought back down, back slammed against the rusted bottom. Raeken is still yelling at him, stomping his boot down on Stiles’ chest and mouth, but the detonator is just five feet away. It’s out of arm’s reach, sure, but he doesn’t need to wrap his fingers around it.

Stiles heaves himself upwards, knocking Raeken off-balance and forcing the boot off his throat. He chokes when his head breaches the water, coughing it out of his lungs and thinking of one of his favorite novels. There’d been a quote in it that had bothered him, but now it seems so perfect. _God burned alive. Only devils now._

As Raeken gets his footing back, Stiles remembers a conversation in a sunlit kitchen while he picked at a salad. _You have an affinity for water_, Deaton had said just three years ago. _You should make that your focus._ He smiles up at Raeken with bloody teeth, catching the Ferriman off guard.

“What,” Raeken snaps, black eyes flickering back to green.

_One day this little ability will come in handy, just wait and see._

“I’m a Spark with a deep connection to nature,” Stiles says. His eyes burn the yellow-green of fireflies and blue sparks dance over the water. Stiles’ gaze doesn’t stray from Raeken’s, but he can feel the instinctual pull of water, the push of it as it wraps around the black control lying on a rusted catwalk at the bottom of the hull.

“So what?” He stands up with a pained grunt, feeling the loss of his pack and a deep rage that settles low in his gut. It’s going to be so easy to destroy all of Raeken’s plans, to destroy the _Lupo_ and set the souls, guilty and innocent, free. The best part? Raeken doesn’t even realize it.

“So I’m basically a water bender, dumbass.” The charges go off with a rumbling boom that shakes the entire ship, metal buckling and panels flying outward on a cloud of black smoke. Stiles doesn’t remember much about what happens next other than specters swimming towards sunlight and a pair of strong arms dragging him upwards with a huffed, _it’s a good thing you’re my mate_.

It takes two days for a cruise ship to find them among the rubble, another three on top of that to make it back to land. Derek is healed by then, but Stiles will need to go to the hospital to get checked out. Turns out have an entire ship explode on top of you isn’t something supernatural healing can fully take care of.

Stiles is fine with being hoisted up on a gurney and he’s fine with being loaded into an ambulance, he’s even fine with the IV that’s stuck in his hand because he’s pretty sure he’s an hour away from hallucinating. In fact, everything is going smoothly until the EMT draws his attention away from his mate and towards the gangplank ready for passengers and crew to load back onto the cruise ship. There are five people toting seven crates onto the ship, all of them entirely too familiar.

The ambulance doors slam shut as Raeken turns his head to grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote 'God burned alive. Only devils now' is from the book NOS4A2 by Joe Hill and it's really good. AMC also made a series about it which was good too if y'all feel like something dark and supernatural.


	9. Faith, Trust, and Pixie Dust

_The world's a hard place, Danny. It don't care. It don't hate you and me, but it don't love us, either. Terrible things happen in the world, and they're things no one can explain. Good people die in bad, painful ways and leave the folks that love them all alone. Sometimes it seems like it's only the bad people who stay healthy and prosper. The world don't love you, but your momma does and so do I._

**—The Shining**

_June 6, 2019_

The cruise liner has seen better days, rust just beginning to take over the appliances. Deck chairs have blown away, a colorful umbrella floating around in the pool and a woman’s corpse floating nearby. She’s branded.

“This is the right one,” Stiles says, crossing his arms as the others join him on the deck. Derek is wearing a pinched expression, the smell of dead bodies left to rot making his stomach churn. Next to him, Lydia and Cora are making similar faces. “Raeken’s around here somewhere.”

“He’s below us,” Lydia says. Her pupils are dilated, mouth opening with each shallow gasp of air. “He doesn’t know we’re here, so Deaton’s spell is working.” Each of them wears a pouch around their necks, filled with soil from Beacon Hills and clippings from the Nemeton, their names sewn into the leather using purple thread and a needle that’s pricked their fingers. Deaton was very proud of all his hard work. He was prouder of the toffee Stiles handed him afterwards.

“Then let’s get to work.” Stiles and Derek take the stairs two at a time, heading down to A deck and then through to the cargo hold. There are more bodies piled in here, a few children that remained untouched, palms smooth and white. Stiles tries not to think of the way his entire crew had been branded, how they’re stuck with Raeken.

“Focus, Stiles,” Derek tells him. Stiles nods and begins pouring gasoline over anything flammable, including bodies. They work from one side to the other, making their way back out of the hold and down the hall through the different rooms. It’s mostly staff quarters on this level, a lot of uniforms and extra bedding. “I’m going to the engine room.”

“Be careful.”

“Always am.” He presses a quick kiss against Stiles’ lips and then he’s gone, bag of welding equipment bouncing against his hip. Cora’s going to meet him down there if things go to plan, help him punch through the metal of the hull and get some water into the ship. Raeken had panicked the last time his ship was flooding, so maybe this will make him panic again. Make him easier to kill.

Stiles continues to work upwards, trailing gasoline behind him with matches rattling around in his pocket. Flood the hull, burn the rest, make Raeken _beg_. It’s a simple plan and his dad had always told him that simple plans are the best when people expect you to go overboard. Make them think there’s more to it than there is. More than gasoline and water and a baseball bat dipped in the melted remains of several hundred obols.

He and Lydia meet at the bridge, cannisters emptied and mates gone for the next hour. “Where’s Raeken?”

“The pool,” Lydia answers, jerking her chin at the row of windows. Raeken is out on deck, skin pealing away in places to reveal gray muscles and bones. He’s dropped his human suit, talons glinting in the sunlight as he slowly turns to look up. Stiles and Lydia meet his gaze without an ounce of fear.

“Wonderful to see you again, Stiles,” Raeken calls up to him. “I see you and Derek have brought me some more souls to salvage!”

“Can’t mark them if they don’t want the gold,” Stiles calls back. Raeken throws his head back to laugh, the sound of warping metal and dying wails. Beside Stiles, Lydia’s teeth clench together to hold back a scream. “Why don’t you come up here and face me, Raeken? Or are you still too scared after I kicked your ass the last time?”

Raeken’s grinning up at him with a lipless mouth, a feral showing of teeth that have grown sharper. There are thin silver caps decorating them, and Stiles knows it’s a punishment from Charon for failing so badly the last time. He’s done his research this time, Stiles knows all about the Ferriman. He’s prepared.

Raeken is all fluid grace as he starts for the stairs, trapped at a human speed no matter how supernatural he may be in origin. Human speeds, human hearing, but supernatural strength. A fair exchange, Stiles supposes. He remembers the ache in his ribs from a booted foot coming down on them repeatedly, how his teeth refused to heal at first until Deaton rubbed a purple paste over them at the hospital. He thinks of Jordan sinking into the Strait, Danny with three cables piercing his chest, John with the bad heart and a cracked skull. It makes anger burn and his Spark hum, makes a scream perch right on the edge of Lydia’s tongue. And Stiles thinks, _soon_.

Raeken’s footsteps are slow and measured on the steps, the thumps matching the beat of Stiles’ heart. He takes his time and comes to a stop in front of the closed door, talons thumping quietly against the metal. He could rip it off its hinges without a problem, but his hand settles on the wheel instead, slowly turning it. He has all the time in the world.

“Guys, how’s it looking,” Lydia asks through the walkie.

_“Almost done,”_ Cora says. _“Buy us a few more minutes.”_

“How did you find me, Stiles,” Raeken asks, the door swinging open.

“Faith, trust, and pixie dust,” Stiles bites out, feeling his Spark light up in his chest like alcohol added to a fire. Raeken’s still grinning, the silver caps winking as he turns his head to appraise Lydia.

“You brought me a Banshee.”

“This Banshee is going to break your kneecaps,” Lydia hisses, voice rough. Stiles can see the muscles in her throat working to hold the scream back, the way she keeps swallowing painfully around it. He thinks of Malia and the way she’d screamed so horribly as she was dragged into her cabin, and his spark burns hotter. “You hurt my pack.”

“A ragtag thing, isn’t it? A few Werewolves, a Spark, a Banshee, and humans. Weirdest pack I’ve ever heard of.”

“Better than what you have.” She looks smug and flicks her hair off her shoulder, a streak of fire. “All you have is Charon and I hear he isn’t very forgiving.” One manicured finger comes up to tap against her tooth, free of any silver and pearly white. Raeken grimaces, bringing up a hand to rub at his mouth and forcing it down halfway through the motion.

_Silver hurts him_, Deaton had said, gently stirring the obols in the cast iron cauldron. _It’s not going to kill him, but it will buy you enough time to destroy his tether to our world_.

Break his tether and he can be killed.

“What’s the matter, Raeken,” Lydia asks. “Did I hurt your feelings?”

“I can’t wait to brand you. I’ll make you kill your mate.” Lydia’s eyes don’t change color, but they _burn_ at the mention of Cora. Raeken laughs at the sight, flexing his hands and making his talons glitter. “And why shouldn’t I? I commanded a Hell Hound to help murder its captain! A Banshee is nothing in comparison!”

Lydia cuts her gaze over to Stiles, running a slim finger over the shell of her ear. Stiles drops to the ground and rolls under the control panel, digging a pair of earmuffs out of his duffle and shoving them on. Lydia’s scream makes the entire cruise liner tremble, glass raining outward over the deck in glimmering shards and Raeken flying backwards. Stiles can see him lying a few feet away, limp.

Stiles climbs out from under the panel, pulling the duffle with him. He’s always known that a Banshee’s scream is powerful, but he’s never seen it used in offense rather than just a mournful wailing when death is near. The force of it had sent Raeken shooting backwards against the wall hard enough that the metal has molded around his torso, a cocoon. His feet dangle and brush the ugly blue carpet, one sneaker gone entirely and the foot mangled.

Like a video being played in fast forward, the bone snaps back into place and muscles begin to snake over it, flesh knitting itself back together until the only sign of injury is the slick blood turning his sock red.

There’s another lurch of the ship and then Derek’s voice is coming through the walkie. _“We’re coming up_.”

Derek and Cora are good at their jobs, but they’re even better at destruction of public property. They’ve been practicing the art since they were pups, so punching a few holes in the hull of a ship is nothing compared to the time they broke the water pipe in Uncle Peter’s house so they could swim in the basement. Actually, it’s pretty much the same process of finding the vulnerable spots and punching. They didn’t even use the equipment they’d brought along.

“We’re coming up,” Derek says into the walkie.

_“Make it quick,”_ Stiles replies. _“Raeken is starting to wake up.”_ It should only take about ten minutes to reach the bridge from here and that’s even taking into consideration the noxious fumes of the gasoline that make the ‘wolves dizzy.

They’re at the halfway point, breathing shallowly, when Jordan steps in front of them. He’s wispy, little more than vapor as he flickers in and out of view. His burns are a mass of pink scar tissue, refusing to heal any further while he’s already dead, and his eyes are like embers in a dying fire. Cora makes as if to embrace him but stops at Derek’s gentle touch to her wrist. This isn’t their Jordan yet. “You don’t have to do this,” Derek says, soft.

“Yes I do,” Jordan bites out. His sharpened canines gleam in the hall lights, slick with saliva. “He bound us to him somehow, Der. Something different than those other souls in case his next ship started to break down. _We’re stuck!”_ Derek winces at the shout, Jordan the most even tempered man he knows.

“Not for long,” Cora promises. She takes a step forward despite her brother’s look of warning, staying out of Jordan’s reach. “Stiles and Lydia are working to break Raeken’s tether.”

“It’s not going to work.” Jordan’s eyes fill with tears, but they turn to mist before they can fall down his cheeks. “Danny and John are coming. They’ll be here any time.” His chest heaves with a sob, yellow sparks dancing around his fingertips. Derek’s gaze meets Cora’s, their breath catching as they realize the fire is going to be started a whole lot earlier than any of them planned.

“Jordan, you need to calm down.”

_“I can’t!”_ Flames engulf him all over again, catching on the gas-soaked wood panels and carpeting. Derek grabs Cora and flings her with him back down the stairs. Water is gushing into the hull, already up to their knees as Jordan starts after them.

“Jordan—”

“You can’t help us,” Danny says, stepping up beside Jordan. “You can’t help any of us.”

“We’re his,” John adds. Jordan is sucking in air like he can’t get enough to fill his lungs, shoulders heaving with soundless cries. “You kids are just damning yourselves. Get out of here.” John’s face has more wrinkles than it used to, carved deep into his weathered face like grooves in the old picnic table in his backyard.

“Raeken is going to hurt your son, Sheriff,” Cora says. She stands proudly between their pack and her Alpha, eyes a bright blue in the gloom. “Surely you can’t hurt your only child?” John makes a choked sound, tangling his fingers in his short hair. “What was that you used to tell him every night?”

“Even darkness must pass.” The words are mumbled and there are tears leaving tracks on his cheeks, cutting through grease and dirt. “He and his mom loved that damn movie.” The brand on John’s palm flickers, glowing a bright red before fading back to pink.

“No, I want to hear the whole thing.” Her voice is commanding, and her gaze doesn’t waver, every inch their mother. Cora should have been Alpha; she’s got the real power in the family and she’s more than just Derek’s enforcer. “What’s the entire stupid quote that Stiles has been mumbling over and over since you guys were murdered?” John sucks in a whistling breath, nails digging into the brand.

“It's like in the great stories. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened?”

“But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow,” Danny picks up, and scratches at the brand. “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer.” The quote is burned into all their memories, equal parts theirs and the Stilinskis. Claudia used to babysit the Hale pups and she’d read them that passage over and over again on the rainy days when they were stuck inside. After she died, Stiles kept up the tradition until their whole pack could quote it from memory.

“Those were the stories that stayed with you,” Jordan picks up. “That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t.” Three brands glow brightly in the darkness of the helm, their forms becoming slightly more solid than they had been. “They kept going, because they were holding on to something.”

**“What were they holding onto,”** Derek asks, an Alpha’s command that rolls over his pack.

Stiles groans as he rolls back to his feet, ignoring the glass scattered over the deck like diamonds. _At least the window was shattered before I was thrown out of it_, he thinks with a rueful smile. Raeken jumps down after him, landing gracefully on his feet. _Superhero landings are hell on the knees_.

“And here I thought you were actually trying to beat me.”

“There’s more than one way to do that,” Lydia says. She’s wearing five inch heels during a brawl and she hasn’t broken her ankle yet. She’s Hollywood levels of badass. “Not all of us have to have elaborate plans.”

“I voted that we should do something huge,” Stiles tells him. “I wanted to have a fucking marching band and fireworks after I kicked your ass, but Lydia said that was overkill.” He shrugs, glass falling off his shoulders. “Then I remembered what my dad used to tell me when I was pranking people in high school. No one expects simple shit.”

“And what’s the simplest way to break a binding spell, Stiles?”

“Nostalgia and an unbreakable bond.”

“Like pack bonds?”

_“Exactly_ like pack bonds, Lyds.” Raeken’s eyes narrow into slits, but Stiles can see how unsure he is. And, really, the best way to break a binding spell is to make the caster unsure about his work. Weaken the bond, weaken the spell, and then they can bash his brains in. Or, as Lydia said earlier, break his kneecaps.

“You can’t,” Raeken starts, but he’s cut off by an Alpha’s echoing command. It washes over the entire pack and Stiles fights the instinct to bare his throat.

**_“What were they holding onto?”_** Raeken shudders at the sound, knees buckling before he can catch himself on a table. The edge bites into his palm and Stiles is interested to see a drop of silver blood rolling down his chin from his nose. _Mercury_, he realizes. The Ferriman bleeds mercury. He files that tidbit away for later.

“What is that? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s some good in this world,” Lydia says, voice ringing out over the deck. There’s a hint of a scream in there and her green eyes blaze with light in the same instant that her lips quirk up in a smile.

“And it’s worth fighting for,” Stiles finishes.

Nothing happens at first, but then Raeken’s doubling over with a pained cry and there’s a shockwave that rocks the ship violently enough to send Stiles against Lydia. She holds him up with ease, patting his cheek when he’s got his feet back under him. Raeken stands slowly, breathing hard as his energy is sapped from him. _Broken tether_.

Stiles reaches down and picks up the forgotten baseball bat, the silver coating cracked in places. It’ll be easy to finish this, to just put him out of his misery, but Stiles wants him to hurt.

“Are you going to beat me, Stiles,” Raeken asks, and his voice is strained.

“That’s the idea.” The bat hits Raeken’s left knee with a resounding crack, sending him to the deck with a broken wheeze. His cheek is next, bone caving in and flesh sizzling where the silver touched him. Stiles keeps swinging until his shoulder screams at him and Lydia’s pulling him away. “Do it, Lydia.” The heels of her Louboutins make small clicks as she strides over to Raeken’s prone body, two coins hidden in her closed fist. Her nails match the bottoms of her shoes, bright red and drawing everyone’s gaze to the wedding ring Cora had slid on her just yesterday morning.

Raeken stares up at her, too weak to move as the fire spreads through the ship and more souls escape. Lydia kneels down in front of him, opening her fist to reveal to two silver coins balanced there. Raeken tries to breathe, but it’s more of a rattling wheeze that gets caught in his throat. A spreading pool of mercury circles his head like a halo and Stiles wonders if Raeken will drown in it.

“Do you know what these are,” she asks. He tries to shake his head, but the bone’s snapped and it’s not healing fast enough. “They are obols that our Druid sent with us. You see, the best way to get the Ferriman out of our world is to pay for his way back home.” Her free hand snaps out and grasps his chin, holding him still so she can place the coins over his eyes. Raeken goes rigid before he begins to seize, jerking violently on the deck as the mercury starts dripping from his ears and eyes. Then he goes still and the only sounds to be heard are crackling flame and footsteps.

“You gonna stand over there all day or are you gonna come give me a hug, son?” Stiles’ head jerks up and his eyes land on the men standing just a few feet away. They’re all there and _solid_, no wispy tendrils of smoke that waver when the sunlight hits them. _His pack is alive_.

He and Lydia are moving before they even realize what’s happening, colliding with their packmates. John’s arms are warm around him and Stiles never wants to let go again, digging his fingers into his dad’s back just to make sure he’s real.

“Alright,” John laughs, patting Stiles’ back. “If we don’t get moving, we’re gonna burn alive.”

“And that’s a sucky way to die,” Jordan says. “Take my word for it.”


End file.
